Amplification
by ficlit78
Summary: A routine recovery leads Pete and Myka into a hot, sticky situation. Retrieving the ultimate artifact of love will always have its pitfalls.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Set pre-finale. It's business as usual for Pete and Myka as they set off to recover another trinket. If I owned Warehouse 13, I'd pimp my house with those awesome steampunk gadgets.

**Amplification**

"Ow!"

"What do you mean, ow? How is that ow?"

"Don't you question my ows! I'll ow if I want to. That hurt!"

"Don't be a baby."

"Don't be a jerk."

"Claudia saw it. Claw, back me up here."

"Your airplanes are mighty and strong, Pete. She might be concussed."

"Concussed, my eye. You chicks and your wagon circling."

"We're not circling! You just happen to be a stupid boy."

"Ow!"

"Children. Children? I need everybody to settle. Pete?" Artie dumped a huge pile of paperwork in front of his team and wagged a finger at his agent. "Quit teasing Myka or I'll separate you two."

It was a briefing like any other. Claudia, Pete and Myka gathered as per their leader's instructions and quickly became bored. It started with making facing and quickly escalated into paper balls and airplanes and creative name calling. Pete winked at Myka as she passed him a dossier. She smiled and rolled in eyes in response.

"Are you even going to bother reading this or should I just feed the fire with it?" she snarked.

"Hey," Pete poked a finger at her. "I told Artie that if these files started coming in pop-up formats, I'd be way more into doing my homework." He slouched into his chair and flipped open the file with exaggerated flair. "See? See Pete read?"

Claudia snorted. "Me see tool attempting to read."

Pete didn't even glance up. "Keep it up, Battlestar."

"A fine show!" Claudia defended. "Shut up, Sports Hour."

"The Broncos are due! There's every reason to watch Sports Hour when one of the suckiest teams alive is about to-,"

"People!" Artie raised in hand sharply for silence, his eyes closing with strained patience. "Fascinating, but eyes on your paper. We have an artifact."

Myka, who had been ravenously reading through her file from the moment Artie handed it over, looked up , giving him a wry expression.  
"You've gotta be kidding me." She tapped the artifact description page with amusement. "Cupid's bow?"

Artie busseled into his chair and gazed at her evenly. "No, my dear. That's incorrect. Cupid's bow is safe with us here in the warehouse. No, this is far more important. We're dealing with a paired artifact, here. And now we've found the other, far more potent half down in Louisiana."

Myka quickly rechecked her reading, a single, dark curl falling against her cheek as she lowered her head. She looked up again and it fell back into place. "So the arrows," she amended.

Artie held up two fingers to the young people. "Two quivers, to be precise, ten arrows in each. We need both of them. Intact. You know the drill. Go fetch."

"Wait a minute," Pete drawled, propping his feet on the table and leaning back. "We're talking about the actual, honest to God Cupid? Little guy? Chubby? Wings? Archer? Shirley Temple do?" He pointed to his own hair.

Claudia chortled. "Dude, Jules Verne's submarine from _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea _is downstairs next to Jesus' sandals. Are you new here?"

Artie's hand shot up before another snip fest ensued. "Yes!" he answered quickly. "Cupid, god of erotic love and beauty. All the stuff that Pete said, plus lots of historical stuff that I won't make him cranky with. Suffice it to say, his bow and arrows are _very _real and very, _very_ dangerous." He gave a 'finito' gesture. "Hence they need to live here."

"Dangerous," Pete repeated mockingly. "Christ, you kill me, man. You need to get out more. I'm totally setting you up, get you outta here, meet a nice girl, fall in love, stop being so dead inside. C'mon, what's wrong with being crazy, mega, super in love?"

"I'm not 'dead' inside," Artie air-quoted in annoyance. "And Pete, not to bore you with those pesky details you hate so much, but if you'd bothered to pay attention in high school, you'd know that the stories of Cupid's love were more often cautionary tales than they were romantic happy endings."

"I remember," Myka agreed, still reading. "One quiver of gold arrows, one of lead. The gold arrows made people fall violently in love. The lead made them violently hate." She couldn't help herself as she stuck her tongue out a Pete, the pink tip darting out and in before Artie could see. "The love created by the golds was almost never returned. It drove the afflicted into misery and madness." She turned her dark green eyes back to Artie. "In the end, they were as emotionally unstable as those struck with a lead tip."

Artie nodded sagely. "A+ for Miss Bering and her excellent book smarts, however," his finger raised in point, "some clarifications for the reality. Number one, the gold arrows cannot actually create love. These arrows are not conjurers, they're a sort of amplifier or just perhaps even an eliminator of the emotional barriers that subdue amorous feelings. We're not sure, they've never been properly studied by experts. Second, the arrows do not need to be shot from their bow to work their spell. This is why it is imperative we get them out of cirrculation, people. An arrow need only draw blood to affect someone. A prick of the finger, a scratch on the arm, and boom. Lovey hatey mess. Third, the arrows can cancel out the work of the other. The gods were geniuses, really," he smiled in admiration. "They are the antidote for each other. Perfect symmetry." He gazed off absently until Claudia cleared her throat loudly.

"Boss man?"

"Ah," he started and came back to the moment. "Sorry. The point is that these arrows create an extremely powerful reaction in their victims. They become euphoric at first, but the nature of the arrow is to make someone want nothing less than total devotion...or destruction, depending on the arrow type. The person quickly becomes demanding, then enraged, then unstable, then acutely dangerous to all around them. They'll do anything to get what they want, and should they be lucky enough to obtain it, they'll do anything to keep it. Betrayal, treason, murder, they won't care. Questions? Fabulous," he didn't wait for hands. "Get out. Bring me back some shiny and pointy."

He rose quickly and left them. Meeting adjurned in it's usual rude and endearing Artie way. The other three gave each other knowing looks.

"So," Claudia dragged out as she flipped through her copy. "Thibodaux, Loooo-siana," she read with a deep Southern twang. "Sounds peachy. Ya'll come back now, ya hear? And bring me some of that alligator stew," her eyes sparkling as she drawled. "I hear it's powerful good."

She jumped up from her chair and skipped lightly out of the room. Pete could have sworn he heard "Swamp Thing" muttered softly as she passed him.

He turned back to Myka, nodding at her just as she nodded back with mischief twinkling in her eyes.

"Louisiana," he said through his smile.

"Louisiana," she agreed through hers.

"Mosquitoes," he said.

"100% humidity," she offered.

"Pickled pigs feet."

"Okra."

"Hurricanes."

"Swamps."

Pete jerked his head towards Claudia's exit. "Alligators."

She tsked Pete for not seeing the scarier prospect. "Alligator _stew_."

He gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

She rose, her long legs unfolding from her seat as she stood. She didn't miss his surreptitious glance at them as she made her way across the room. She tucked her chin to hide her pleased smile. "Can't wait," she chirped sarcastically.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, thank God!" Pete breathed in relief as he and Myka stepped into the Hotel Thibodaux lobby. Air conditioning greeted their sweaty, sticky bodies and instantly cooled them as the automatic doors closed on the insufferable humidity outside. From the moment they'd stepped off the plane in southern Louisianna, a wall of moist, hot air had swamped their clothes and nearly drowned their lungs. The cab ride to the hotel had been agony.

"Sorry," the driver offered as they opened the doors and gasped at the heat pouring out of the car. "AC's busted. Ya'll will have to just crank the windows down."

But it hadn't helped. The swirling sauna-like air only passed over them faster, taking none of their discomfort with it. By the time they'd peeled themselves off the upholstery and staggered into the lobby, both of them felt like they'd sat in a hot tub for hours on a 90 degree day.

"Ooooooh," Myka crooned happily as the air wafted across her face and into her wet curls. "Oh, that's so much better." She tipped her head back and dropped her bags, opening her arms and letting the cool breeze filter through her damp clothes. She closed her eyes and sighed blissfully as the sweat began to dry. "How did people survive down here before AC?" she wondered aloud.

"Dunno. Big ole fans and swimmin' holes, I guess," Pete muttered, also abandoning his things on the carpet and spreading his arms wide.

Myka righted her head and opened her eyes. "I guess. Still, though. Doesn't seem worth it. Why not go live up north? Nice and dry. Gator and hurricane free. No more frizzy hair. Seriously, what's the appeal?"

"Well," a deep voice drawled behind her, causing her to whirl around in surprise. "For one thing, we're safe from grizzly beh-yahs and earthquakes. That and chapped skin." A kindly looking older man in a suit smiled at her as he put out his hand. "Oliver Dubois, hotel manager. And you two," he sized up their disheveled appearance, "are clea-ly not local."

His deep Louisianna accent was soothing and pleasant, but it didn't stop Myka from turning deep red with embarrassment at being overheard. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that-,"

"Of co-ahse you did, dahlin'. But that doesn't mean I take offense." He shook their hands as they offered them in turn. "To each her lovely own."

Myka, still red, smiled gratefully. "Thank you. And you're right. We're not local. We're here to check in."

"Wonderful," he said, gesturing a bellhop. "How about we get you over to the reception desk and find yo keys?"

Myka smiled and thanked him again. He spoke exactly how she imagined Mark Twain would have. This man seemed to share his wry amusement coupled a Southern education geared towards the beautification of the Southern drawl, not the erasure of it, as so many educated Southern people often tried to do. In the course of her professional career, Myka had been surprised how many people she'd met who, after speaking like any Michigan or California local, turned out to be from Mobil, Alabama or Jackson, Mississippi. They had been embarrassed about their humble twang and hence had buried it under a blander, Northern dialect. Mr. Dubois was clearly quite proud of his origins.

Pete helped the bellhop load up a trolley while Myka got their keys. They followed the boy upstairs to one of their rooms, tipped him, and promptly collapsed, Pete on the bed and Myka in one of the chairs next to the tv.

"Ugh," Pete grunted, stretching lazily, working the plane ride out of his cramped muscles. "You want this room or should I take it?"

"Nah," she answered, rotating her neck slowly. "You take this one. You've already messed up the bed."

Pete snorted as he locked his hands behind his neck, his chest and arms straining against his t-shirt as he continued to stretch. Myka lowered her head, pretending to do the same with her shoulders, while she furtively watched the way his shirt molded to his lithe, sculpted muscles as they worked themselves beneath it. His eyes were shut as he yawned widely, his even teeth flashing at her as they snapped back together. _Lazy, pretty man_, she thought.

"So what do we do first?" he shook her from her thoughts with his question.

Myka grudgingly drew her gaze away from his unintentional show and settled it on her bag. All the way over there by the door. Her tired, cooling body didn't feel like getting up to retrieve the file. That required work. Non-sitting work. Her full lips puckered in annoyance and Pete found himself smiling at her girlish look of dislike.

"Well," she tried to recall the particulars. "All we have are rumors, at this point. There's a practicing voodoo priest in this parish whose arts apparently include spells for love and hatred. That in itself isn't weird. Most priests offer similar spells. But this man's appear to be working. An inordinate number of people have been behaving strangely after seeking his services. A local judge has been jailed for attacking a female public defender. There are reports that he's been cursed by this priest at the behest of a client."

"Hmmmm," Pete mused as he settled his head back into his hands. His biceps bunched impressively and his abs went bumpy over his prone stomach. Myka stifled the sudden urge to crawl onto the cool comforter, up his open body and rest her head on the wide expanse of his chest. She tried to tell herself it was just a kneejerk reaction to seeing a man comfortable and happy and had nothing to do with the warm, silly feeling she got every time she looked at her partner.

"Was the lady lawyer attacked out of love or hate?" he asked, totally ignorant about her train of thought.

She shrugged softly. "That's the rub, isn't it? With Cupid's arrows, it's sometimes hard to tell. Perhaps they have feelings for each other and the lawyer paid for the spell. The judge _is _married, maybe the lawyer wanted to push him a little. Or maybe someone else paid to make him boil over with rage. Maybe he can't stand the woman, but always acted professionally around her. Someone might have wanted him fired, knowing he'd attack someone, _anyone_, and have it jeopardize his job."

She leveled another longing, unwilling gaze at her bag with all of it's lovely, hard data sitting inside. But her legs wouldn't cooperate. "Stupid file," she muttered quietly before continuing. Pete chuckled, seeing her sloth and diligence battling for control in her expression.

"Anyway, there have been other reports, but the judge's caught Artie's attention. The love/hate aspect of the spells is too much of a coincidence for him. So," she gestured to both of them, "we're melting in Cajun Country."

Pete lifted his head a fraction. He noted with some disappointment that her shirt was drying out in the coolness of the room. The baby tee that had clung so enticingly to her breasts and slim upper arms outside was now loosening its grip on her flawless skin. She looked so pretty, all tuckered out, her long, willowy body slouched gracefully in the chair. He was suddenly struck with the insane, totally natural urge to tug her onto the bed, snuggle her onto his body, and take a nap with her, wrapped up together, sharing enough warmth to stave off the inevitable chill that comes with constant AC exposure. She looked so…_soft_. He adored the idea of her curling on top of him, all drowsy and supple, while he rubbed her back until they both fell asleep.

Or maybe start with the first few things and skip the nap entirely. Pete shook his head slightly.

"So what's the plan?"

Myka checked her watch. "Well, it's six o'clock now. Do voodoo priests keep office hours?"

Pete chuckled, but shivered slightly at the same time. The idea of Myka cuddled tightly against him had made him very aware of the AC as it blew quietly from the vents. Suddenly he felt cold. He resisted the urge to pull half of the comforter over him, knowing it wasn't the shelter he really wanted.

"I doubt it," he answered. "I suggest we either go visit the guy at home, or start fresh in the morning."

Myka groaned at his tempting second option. "We have to do something, or else I'm going to fall asleep right here on your chair."

_Not _what he wanted to hear. Because in fact, it was exactly what he wanted to _do_. Nope. Nipping this right now. Can't go around having impure, yet seemingly completely pure, thoughts about your partner. Pete hoisted himself into a sitting position and jabbed his thumb at the door.

"Sorry, lady," he said as he slowly stood up. "But I'm giving you the bum's rush. Your stuff's in your room. Go take a shower. Wake up a little, then meet me back in here in twenty. Then we'll go see a guy about some arrows."

Myka closed her eyes against the rational, totally unwelcome decisiveness of her partner. "Hm, okay. Let's go find some pointy shiny."

"Pointy shiny," he affirmed. He held out his hand and she accepted. She pulled herself up, stumbling slightly as she headed towards the door and Pete couldn't help himself as he smacked her ass playfully.

"Hey!" she shouted, eyes shooting wide.

"_There_ she is," he crowed loudly. "Hup two, woman, otherwise who'll kick this guy's ass if he gives me trouble and you're sleeping like housecat in the car?"

"Wouldn't sleep," she objected, grumbling the words as she passed. "Twenty," she agreed. "I'll be right back."

He watched the door close behind her before allowing himself a heavy sigh.

This…_thing_…whatever it was, wasn't getting any damn easier. He kept arguing with himself that she was simply a pretty woman. A smart woman. Men were naturally drawn to smart, pretty women. His attraction to her was just that, a mere attraction. Easily overcome with an objective rationale. He could wipe it from his mind anytime he wanted to.

Pete cursed under his breath and yanked his shirt off as he walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

He knew that chain of reasoning all too well. Whiskey had told it to him. So had beer. In his more desperate moments, wine and vodka and gin and tequila, _all _of them had suckered him in with the promise that he could stop anytime he wanted to.

He stripped completely and jumped under the warm spray.

He needed to see Myka for what she was. Myka was…alluring. He knew because he'd been lured before. He needed to stop with the fantasies and unprofessional thoughts before the paddling pool turned into a rip tide. He couldn't afford to get sucked out again. His first addiction had nearly torn him to pieces. He scrubbed his hair and shuddered to think about what Myka—with her beautiful eyes and endearing vulnerability—could do to his soft heart and highly addictive personality.


	3. Chapter 3

Seventeen minutes later, there was a knock on his door.

"Pete? It's me."

It opened to her, Pete on the other side, already walking away as he continued a conversation with Artie on their communicator. She slid inside and shut the door behind her as she listened.

"Myka's here now. So what's the news?" Pete asked the box.

Artie's black and white face flickered brightly on the monitor. "Forget the priest for tonight," Artie said. "I've made arrangements for you two to go visit the judge at the local jail. He's been charged with assault with a deadly weapon. No bail, given his dangerously erratic behavior. He seems completely disinterested in his incarceration and impending trial. He's consumed with the desire to see the woman," he checked his notes. "A Katie Price. She is all he cares about."

Myka crowded Pete as he stood beside her, wanting to see Artie as she spoke. "When are they expecting us?"

"Now," he answered. "No need to play coy. Show them your badge. Make up some drivel about terrorist cells or drug rings. Implicate the judge might be involved or victimized. Your usual Secret Service bullshit you people say to scare people into cooperating."

"Hey!" the agents said in unison.

"Whatever," Artie waved them off. "Go see him. Asked what happened. Pay close attention to the words he uses to describe his attraction to this woman. Look for epic words like 'soulmate' and 'destiny', crap like that. The fact that he attacked her suggests that she does not reciprocate, at least not enough for his liking, and he tried to coerce her until it got violent." He paused and rubbed his eyes. "That's what usually happens."

"Kay," Pete nodded. "Anything else?"

But Artie was already gone, the white screen quickly shrinking into a tiny dot in the black.

Unfazed by their curt dismissal, Pete snapped the case shut. "Okay, change of plans. Let's go see what Johnny Cash has to say."

Myka smiled. "I seriously doubt he took a shot of cocaine and then shot his woman down. Otherwise, we would have caught him in Juarez, Mexico."

Pete smiled in return. "I love that you get my reference jokes. It's a rare and beautiful thing." He hugged her roughly around the shoulders before stepping back and letting her walk out first.

The jail wasn't far. Old Lou ranked number six for prison population size in the country. Plenty of local jails and prisons to go 'round. They got there in fifteen minutes and were taken to a private room. Judge Wallace Ackerman sat chained to the table in the middle of the room. A middle-aged man, he could have once looked dignified, but his appearance now was anything but. He was completely disheveled, his jumpsuit torn up from his struggles. His exposed wrists were red and bleeding from where he fought violently against his cuffs. His brown hair was wild. His eyes were no different. When the agents entered the room, he pinned them with an enraged glare of a cornered dog. He lips worked tightly over his teeth, almost like he wanted to bare them. Pete and Myka moved calmly and sat on the other side of him, both quietly assessing him for their future report back to the Warehouse.

He didn't wait for them to speak. "Where's Katie?"

Neither agent betrayed it, but both felt a chill hit their spine at his angry hiss. Pete in particular was struck by a particularly dark, scary premonition that bit deep into his gut and made his blood turn cold. This man was dangerous. There was nothing left of him except that question.

"Safe," Myka offered softly. "Katie is safe. And happy. She's why we're here, actually. We'd like to talk to you about her."

Myka had meant to mollify him, but instead, he got angrier at her words.

"She's not happy," he spat as he lowered his head in her direction. "She can only be happy with me. She belongs with me." He leaned towards her and yanked his hands hard against his cuffs. They sank into his wounded flesh, yet he didn't seem to notice. "She belongs _to _me."

"Of course she does," Pete soothed immediately, holding his hands out in a peaceful gesture. "No one's saying she doesn't. We'd just like to talk to you about before." He paused as the judge's attention fell on him. The chill in his gut intensified. He didn't like it. At all. He searched carefully for the right words. "Can you tell us about the few days before you realized Katie belonged to you?"

"Can you bring Katie to me or not?" he eyed Pete accusingly.

"No," Pete answered honestly. "That's not why we came."

"Then fuck off!" the judge yelled angrily. His attention leapt to the guard standing behind the agents. "Bring me people who can get Katie, goddammit! Why are you wasting time?" He yanked savagely against his cuffs again, blood flowing freely now as he tore his own body to pieces trying to liberate it. "KATIE! KATIE, WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Judge Ackerman, please," she tried to calm him.

"You don't understand!" he shouted at her. "I need her! Don't you get it? Don't you see? Haven't you ever wanted something so much that you'd die if you didn't have it with you every single SECOND?"

Sadness shot through her system as her panicked mind instantly conjured Sam. Her lover, long dead, had been the only man she'd ever allowed herself to fall for. A stupid, adulterous, painful mistake, but still. He was the closest she'd ever come to mad love, but it was a mere shadow compared to this man's frenzied state. She'd fallen, but she never would have allowed herself to fall _this _badly.

Pete was also transported against his will back to a time when he'd wanted something so much that he'd thought he would die from it. His lover had been liquid, but he'd known this man's affliction and it ripped him up inside knowing that this man's withdraw was no doubt eating him alive.

Myka had shaken her head at his question, feeling like a heartless bitch. Pete nodded slowly, sickened by his own weakness.

"Fuck you both," he growled. "GET ME KATIE! GET ME KATIE! _GET ME KATIE_!"

"Okay!" Myka shouted over him, standing halfway between him and the guard who had stepped forward to make him settle down, one way or another. "Okay," she looked back at Ackerman. "We'll get you Katie. We'll bring her in, you can talk to her for as long as you want."

That calmed him instantly. Warmth flooded into his features and for a second they saw a ghost of who the man used to be a week before. His eyes widened and he smiled contentedly. Just like magic. Both agents noted this.

"Katie," he breathed reverently. "When can I see her?"

"Just as soon as you talk to us," Myka's open, honest expression belied her lie. Katie wasn't coming. That was for damn sure. Katie Price had made it very clear that she never wanted to see this psychopath ever again. Secretly, Myka pitied him. His was another tale of Cupid's unrequited love. Get out a pen. Add it to the tomes of Greek tragedies.

"Please, Wallace," she coaxed. "Can you tell us about anything unusual that might have happened in the last week? Before…?" she trailed off, not sure how to complete the question without angering him again.

But her promise had transformed him. He was sitting quietly, his expression relaxed and attentive as he thought carefully about the week before. It was important that he answer the pretty woman's questions. To do so meant that Katie would be brought to him. That was all that mattered.

"The week before I realized Katie was my soulmate was normal," he began thoughtfully. Pete and Myka exchanged glances. "I went to work, I went home, I had dinner with my wife," he mentioned her with the blitheness of mentioning a roommate, "and those were pretty much my days."

He stared at the table intently before him before looking up with excitement. "Ah," he said, his face lit up. "I was mugged. That happened the day before I declared myself to Katie."

He looked wildly pleased with himself. He had remembered something unusual. Katie was coming to see him for sure now. "Is that helpful?"

"Mugged," Myka repeated. "Were you, um, injured at all? Did they say anything to you?"

He bit his lips blissfully as he considered. "Yes," he answered. "Well, sort of."

"Sort of how?" Pete asked, taking a chance and leaning forward slightly.

"Well, he didn't say anything except to demand my wallet. He came at me from behind and pressed a knife into my back. When I handed it over, he took it from me, then" he lowered his head to his cuffed, bleeding hand and ran his fingers over his cheek. "He cut me. Or at least I _thought _he did. He sliced my cheek. I saw the blood on my hand when I covered it up. But it was weird. When I got home, there was nothing." He turned his head, showing him his stubbled but unblemished face. "No cut. No blood. It looked fine. I figured I imagined it, being so scared and all."

"Did you see it?" asked Myka. "The knife?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No. I never saw it. So when is Katie coming?"

The two agents glanced at each other again before standing up. "Soon," Pete answered. "She'll be here soon."

"Good," Ackerman said, settling back into his chair. "I'll wait for her here."

They edged out of the room, trying not to watch his happy certainty as he sat in expectation of a woman who would never show. The guard locked the door behind them and they let out twin sighs of relief.

"Wow," Myka whispered quietly.

"Yeah," Pete agreed as they began to walk toward the exit, back out into the swampy night air. "Wow."


	4. Chapter 4

They were quiet during the ride home. Their rental had been delivered to their hotel before they'd left, so Pete had offered to drive to and from the jail, knowing Myka was still feeling the plane trip. He gripped the wheel, deep in thought, as he drove through the darkened streets. The sight of Ackerman's wrists had burned itself into his memory, his cuffs slick with his own blood. But the man hadn't looked down once. Not _once._ Pete had interviewed hundreds, maybe thousands of suspects. Many of them had fought their captivity and chaffed under the steadfast metal, but every last one had rubbed their wrists during the course of his interview. Or asked for them to be loosened. Or removed. In some way, the suspect made their discomfort clear to him, whether they realized it or not.

Ackerman fought harder than anyone he'd ever seen and the judge hadn't even noticed.

Pete shuddered. When he had been a kid, his neighbor had owned a sweet old retriever who loved to go bounding out into the woods near their house. Late one night, Pete had woken to the sound of soft whining somewhere in their backyard. Clad in just his jammies, he'd snuck outside to discover its source and found the dog cowering under a tree. Whispering softly and edging closer, Pete saw why the dog was so terrified. Attached to his front leg was a jaw trap—wide as a dinner plate—that had snapped viciously shut over its slender shin. The animal turned its pained eyes to him, begging him for help, as blood coursed freely over the cruel device. A muddy stake attached by a chain lay near its trembling form. Clearly, the dog had stepped into the trap, then through a sheer force of will, pulled the trap from the ground and dragged it home, despite the unimaginable pain it must have caused him. Pete had been paralyzed at the time. He had wanted to throw himself onto the trap and pulled with all of his tiny might until the jaws opened enough for the dog to pull free, but at the same time, he was scared the dog, in its pain and confusion, would attack him if he tried.

In the end, he'd run to his parents and woken them up. His dad, calmly and steadily, put his hands on the dog, petting his head and soothing his fear. He drove him to the vet, who'd been able to remove the trap with no trouble. The dog hadn't even broken any bones, amazingly enough. But the memory of that animal's pain had stayed with him.

Ackerman was trapped. Ackerman was bleeding. But unlike the dog, Ackerman would gladly rip through it and drag himself to Katie, totally unaware of his injury, and lay bleeding and deliriously happy in her arms.

It all made him wonder. What kind of mojo was strong enough to make people ignore their instinctual response to pain? What else was Ackerman willing to do to himself or others in order to get what he wanted?

_Betrayal, treason, murder, they won't care._

Artie's words ghosted through his mind. And he did not doubt them. Not one iota. He suddenly had new and fearful respect for these arrows. He hadn't fully appreciated their destructive power before. Now he'd seen. Mega, crazy, super love wasn't a healthy thing in a man. It could _never _be returned to his liking. No two people could ever truly love equally. One would always love more than the other. And in most non-mojo'd relationships, that was acceptable.

But love at this level of intensity? Pete was positive now that it would always end badly.

"Pete?"

He flinched at his name and looked over at Myka gazing at him quizzically from the passenger seat. "Yeah?"

She smiled nervously. "We're here. You parked almost a minute ago and you haven't moved an inch."

Pete looked back out the windshield and realized she was right. He had steered them all the way back and into the hotel parking lot on autopilot. He inhaled slowly, cursing himself for not paying attention.

"Sorry. My mind was elsewhere."

"Back in a jail cell where a lost soul is screaming for Katie?" she asked quietly.

He looked down into his lap. "Yeah. I was just thinking, that man is living through some kind of hell that I don't want to even imagine."

Myka gazed at him thoughtfully. Finally, she answered, "But you don't have to imagine. You already know."

He turned his head and met her gaze. Sometimes he forgot how knowing she could be. So often it was him playing the psychic and her playing the professor, he would forget she was perfectly capable of reading people. Especially him.

He nodded slightly. "I know, but only a little. My addiction was bad, but that?" he jerked his chin down the road. "I don't think I ever knew that."

Myka nodded, but said nothing. Pete loved that about her. When the conversation was serious enough, she simply listened, accepting what she heard, filing it away in that gorgeous brain of hers. She didn't jump in with unwanted advice or opinions. She absorbed. And she respected. As a sober alcoholic, he'd received so many two cents' worth in the past that he stopped mentioning it to people. He didn't want to hear about their boozy relations or commiserations that he could never take a drink again. With Myka, he felt comfortable and not judged. Another of her rare and beautiful qualities.

"I never have either," she offered about herself. "Not like that. _Nothing_ like that, actually. Next to Ackerman, I feel…" she petered off and looked away.

Pete put his hand over hers on her knee. "You feel?"

She kept her gaze from his, but allowed it to drop to his hand resting over her fingers. "I…I feel cold."

Pete eyed the air conditioning setting. "You're cold right now?" It felt quite warm to him.

Myka smiled. Cute, literal boy. "No, I mean that I look at Ackerman and know that I've never cared for anyone like he does Katie. Not even close. It's suicidal to surrender yourself like he has." She heard the defensive edge to her voice. "I just can't imagine it, that's all. So by default, I must be more unfeeling."

Pete smiled warmly and squeezed her hand. "Don't be stupid." His voice was light and dismissive. Myka couldn't help smiling at their hands. He clearly thought her statement was hogwash.

"No, I mean it," she retorted. "Maybe my heart just works different than everyone else's. Maybe I'm just too buttoned-down and uptight. You thought so when we first met," she finally looked him square in the eye. "Didn't you?"

"I _never_ thought you were cold," Pete countered. "Quite the opposite. I thought you were feisty."

A timid smile played on her full lips and upped his heart rate by a few beats. "Feisty?"

"Of course!" he grinned. "Feisty and full of hot sauce. Cold people don't argue with their partners and drive them crazy. And your heart's fine. Here," he pulled her hand from her lap and put two of her fingers firmly over his pulse point under his jaw bone. The suddenness and intimacy of his action made her jump slightly.

"And here," his own fingers slid through her hair to the hollow of her throat, pressing softly until he found the telltale leap under her skin. "Now feel."

They held each other's gaze until their fingers discerned the rhythm of the other's heart. Pete's other hand reached across the short space and settled on her knee. Electrical sparks shot down her leg as he began to lightly tap into her jeans.

"This is you," he informed softly, his taps relaying her heartbeat to her.

_Tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap_

Myka reached out hesitantly and placed her other hand over his outstretched arm. She couldn't reach his knee, so she placed her fingers on his bare bicep, just below his t-shirt sleeve. "This is you," she answered.

_Tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap_

Her fingers mimicked the pulse in his throat.

Both of them inhaled in surprise. Their fingers were tapping in perfect unison. The speed and double strikes were evenly matched, so much so that Myka closed her eyes and focused harder on feeling Pete, positive she must be aping his taps instead of recreating his beat.

Behind her closed eyes, she felt his blood pumping under her finger. She stopped tapping and gasped in amazement as Pete's taps fell with perfect timing, as if he were guaging his own pulse.

"So weird," she murmured, blindly listening to their shared tap, her hand resting on his arm. "How can they be the same?"

Suddenly the pulse under her fingers spiked and beat harder. Pete jerked away, pulling his hands from her neck and knee. Myka, startled, blinked and retreated from him as well. "Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

"Yeah," he answered quickly, clearing his throat and looking away. "Yeah, fine. I'm good."

Myka looked down, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "Okay. I guess we should probably call it a night, huh?"

'Yep," Pete clipped too quickly. "Yes, we should definitely…go… sleep…rooms…separate. Uh-huh."

Still blushing, Myka opened her door and slid out. Pete took a short, deep breath before following. He didn't let it out until he uttered a 'goodnight' to her and scurried into his room, slamming the door and exhaling harshly.

"_Fuuuck_," he hissed raggedly, falling face first onto his bed.

He shut his eyes tight, desperately trying to banish the vibe that had nearly overwhelmed him in the car. The way Myka had closed her eyes, concentrating on his pulse so intently, it had triggered one of his feelings out of nowhere.

But none of his feelings had ever felt like this.

He had meant it as innocent. He'd wanted to reassure her, let her know that she was warm and kind and wonderful and she was a damn fool to doubt it. His rough fingers had to filter through her silky curls before he encountered her ridiculously soft skin. And the moment she closed her eyes, the vibe smacked him like a bat.

His vibes were never visual. He thanked God for that now. With her pulse jumping softly against his fingers, intense pleasure had rolled through his body as he sensed Myka on her knees in front of him, her soft little mouth swallowing him whole while he tangled his hands in her stunning hair. She was enjoying it, sucking him softly, then harder, then murmuring his name so sweetly that he'd nearly shot off with no actual stimulation. Mother of God, if it had come with visuals, he would have been a goner.

He'd ripped himself away from her and nearly ran for his room, hoping the distance would lessen the sensation's impact.

Sprawled on his bed and moaning brokenly, he was now very sure that distance wasn't helping. He could still feel her. Her tongue was working magically over his rigid cock while she moaned with pleasure. He was throbbing tightly behind his zipper so badly that it actually hurt.

"Myka," he whispered into the bed.

His hips began to thrust into the mattress, desperate for relief. He hated himself for it. He'd never let it get this far before. His fantasies had never begged for release like this. He'd never let them. It was wrong. It was disrespectful. Myka deserved his respect. He would _never_ jerk off to the thought of her blowing him.

He groaned again and flipped to his back, snapping his pants open and freeing his aching erection. He gripped hard and pumped himself madly, the wet heat of Myka's mouth so real that he would swear he was hallucinating.

The feel of her lush lips. The fantasy of her wide eyes looking up at him as she took him deep. His left hand shot to his mouth and he bit down hard as he came loudly behind it.

His release immediately slackened the vibe's hold on him. Instantly, its intensity began to fade. Still pumping himself slowly, his eyes fluttered open slowly, the room filled only with the sounds of his gasping pants and the hushed blow of the AC.

"Holy shit," he muttered brokenly. _What the hell was _that_?_

He sat up unsteadily, feeling incredibly dizzy before heading to the bathroom to clean himself up. He'd just buttoned his jeans back up when there was a soft knock on his door. Still disoriented, he opened it without checking the peephole.

His pulse leapt again as Myka stood on the other side, dressed in a tank top and shorts, clearly all ready for bed. Her hair was tousled and framed her lovely face. She still looked embarrassed. Man, if only she knew.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he answered, his hands still damp from washing the come from his fingers. He balled them into a fist, not wanting them anywhere near her. "What's up?"

"Well," she bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. "My AC's broken. I walked into my room and nearly died from the humidity."

"Oh," Pete said, leaning against his door frame. "Did you want me to call downstairs and get you another room?"

She shook her head, looking even more anxious. "I already did. The hotel's full. Some sort of convention in town. And they can't fix the AC until tomorrow." She bit her lips again and he fought the urge to reach out and pull them gently out from her nibbling teeth. "Can I stay with you? I'll never be able to sleep in that marsh. I don't take up much room, honest."

Was it him, or was God being a sadistic bastard? Oh course she could stay. Hell no, she couldn't stay. Come inside and take up as much room as you want. Run like hell and don't get anywhere near me. Pete bit back a groan as his recently-sated desire roared back to life at the prospect of the real Myka sharing a bed with him. Caution was shouted down by chivalry. He couldn't just leave her to toss all night in discomfort while he had a king-sized island of a bed all to himself.

But caution demanded he split the difference.

"I can take your room," he offered. "I don't want you uncomfortable either way. And I offered this room to you earlier. You should take it. I'll take the marsh."

Myka smiled tightly at his kindness, but shook her head. "Trust me, you don't want it. It's sweltering in there, Pete. I'm fine with staying with you. Seriously. Unless," she grew uncertain again as a thought occurred to her. "Unless you don't want to share. That's fine, too. I understand if you want your space and—,"

"What? No!" he interrupted. "I just wanted…you know…to let you know that if you wanted to be alone, I could—,"

"No!" she counter-interrupted. "I'm fine. No big deal, right? We're friends, we've been in tight quarters before. Yeah, no I'm good."

Their sentences ran over each other and they stopped, laughing and smiling.

Pete opened the door wide. "Come in. Kick your shoes off. Stay awhile."

"Thank you," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and walking inside.

They turned and faced the bed together. A monolith of embarrassment for them both. Pete was acutely aware of its shameful secret from just a few minutes ago. He cleared his throat and gestured. "So. Which side do you want?"

"Um, right?"

"Are you asking?"

"I guess so. Can I have the right?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Why the right?"

"Okay," she amended. "Left?"

He laughed, some of the awkwardness melting away. "Right's fine. Take it, it's yours."

She walked over and pulled the sheets away before sliding in between them. Pete excused himself and grabbed his sleeping shirt and sweatpants. It was too hot for the pants, but he hadn't planned on guests. Sleeping in just his boxers was definitely not an option tonight. He changed quickly in the bathroom.

He came out and found her all curled up and facing away from his side. He pulled the sheets and eased into them, careful to maintain two feet between him and the slender, feminine body next to him. When they'd settled comfortably, Pete reached out and turned off the lamp. Darkness consumed them, the AC humming as always.

A minute elapsed in silence before Myka whispered softly. "Goodnight again, Pete."

"Night, Myka," he returned. Not knowing where to put his hands, he settled for resting them on his chest. As the silence enveloped them, he could easily pick up the gentle thump in his ribcage. He spread his left hand more fully above it.

His heartbeat.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep trying not to think about the identical heartbeat lying next to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Myka woke up shivering in the dark. She lay curled on her side, her eyes blinking groggily as they adjusted slowly. She lifted her head, not quite sure of where she was, until she saw Pete's suitcase on the floor and his keys on the bed table next to her. Then she remembered.

She was sleeping with Pete.

The play on words made her snort with sleepy amusement. Lowering her gaze to her body, she also realized that she'd woken herself up because she was freezing. At some point in the night, she or Pete had kicked the covers off to the end of the bed. Pete, if she had to guess, given that he was wearing more clothes. She craned her neck and looked behind her to see if he was shivering as well and was startled to find him right next to her. He was on his side facing her, one arm under his pillow and the other cradled into his side. In the dim light, she could just make out his features. His eyelashes fell against his cheekbones. His chin looked even more dimpled in the shadows. The angular cut of his jaw was softened by the fuller curve of his mouth.

There was no denying it. Pete was a very pretty boy.

Myka smiled. She couldn't help it. Pete Lattimer, dressed head to toe in Dartmouth gear and breathing softly at her side, was a good-looking man. She'd always thought so, even though she'd die before admitting it. Especially to him. God, she'd never hear the end of it. "You _looooov_e me," he'd sing-song. "You want to _daaaaate_ me. You want to _hooooold_ me. You want to _kiiiiiiss_ me."

Curse the woman who made him watch _Miss Congeniality_.

She sighed and turned away from him. The last thing she needed was for him to wake up and find her staring at him while he slept. That was definitely creepy stalker chick stuff.

Still curled with her back to him, she reached down and groped blindly for the blankets. Goose bumps were breaking out on her arms and legs and she wanted to just warm up and go back to sleep. She found the corner of the comforter and, wiggling slightly for better grip, began to pull it up.

She'd managed to cover herself to the waist when an arm snaked around her middle and pulled her backwards, into the deliciously warm spoon of Pete's chest and thighs. She stiffened and gasped as his other arm pulled out from under his pillow and slid under her neck, winding around her shoulders, pulling her tighter against him.

Her body reacted before she could. She arched back into him, her skin delighted at the soft heat emanating off him. He felt firm against her, his well-toned muscles curling around her softer form, thighs against thighs, hips against hips, chest against back.

He growled throatily and Myka knew a satisfied male when she heard one. His breathing and laxity told her that he was still fast asleep. He'd simply felt her wiggling and, probably thinking she was an old girlfriend or something, had snuggled up to her.

As jealous as she was of the unwelcome thought of his old girlfriends, she had to admit that she liked this. _More_ than liked it. Pete, apparently, was a cuddler. She chuckled softly at the intimate tidbit she was now privy to.

She began quietly working out a way to extract herself. As pleasant as his hold felt, it wasn't right. She was his friend, not his lover. She shouldn't take advantage of his unconscious state like this. She needed to maintain their distance and scoot back into her tiny sliver of the bed. But just as she started to peel his hands away from her waist and shoulders, his grip tightened considerably and his growl went decidedly disapproving.

He nuzzled his face into her hair and murmured from somewhere deep in his dreams. "Myyyka," his purred into her ear.

She froze.

She waited.

Sensing she wasn't trying to escape anymore, Pete went still again, sighing deeply.

Myka swallowed thickly. She could feel him breathing softly in her hair, his exhalations sending warm chills into her scalp. His arms were banded tight. She wasn't going anywhere. Not unless she woke him up.

Her heart skipped a beat when she realized she didn't want him to wake up. Nor did she want to go back to sleep. The desire to stay conscious while a sleeping Pete held her tight and growled her name struck her hard. All thoughts of cute, silly, playful Pete were eclipsed by the realization that no other man had _ever _said her name in such a dark, erotic hiss. No other man had _ever_ sought her out in his sleep. No other man had _ever _held her this tightly and been totally unaware of it.

No. She didn't want him to wake up at all. She didn't want him to laugh in embarrassment and scuttle back to the far edge of his side, leaving her cold and unsheltered on hers. She didn't want him apologizing for groping her like a cad. She didn't want to hear a single word of it.

Because Pete wasn't groping her blindly in his sleep. Myka was filled with the odd sense that Pete was…_loving_ her in his sleep.

And it was good. Crazy, and probably completely ridiculous, but good.

She opened her eyes wide and blinked hard against the fuzzy warmth that was descending on her. She didn't want to fall asleep. She just wanted to enjoy this for a few more minutes, then she'd find a way out of his grasp and save herself from the horror of hearing him disown his actions in humiliation. She crossed her arms over the one across her waist with the fullest intention of removing it.

_Just one more minute._

Her eyes lost the battle and drifted shut. She went lax and pliant in Pete's arms. Burrowing deeper against his chest, she told herself she'd only stay for five minutes. _Five minutes_, she thought dreamily.

Against the drugging heat of her partner, and sleeping with a man for the first time in over a year, she fell fast asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Pete woke up to light streaming through his window and a beautiful woman spooned wonderfully against his chest. His eyes squinted as he took in the first. They widened with shock when he realized the second.

At some point in the night, he'd managed to wrap his arms completely around her and pull her into his chest. His lips were inches away from her fragrant hair as he lifted up to take in their position. Her slender arms were locked possessively over his at her waist while his other arm was snaked around her shoulders and pulling her flush against him. The blanket covered her to the waist, obscuring his view of the rest of them, but he didn't need to see. The luscious curve of her ass was pressed into his groin while her bare legs slotted seamlessly against his own.

Pete took in the delicious feeling of waking up fully draped around Myka and cursed himself for being an idiot.

Looking down at her peaceful, sleeping face, Pete felt nothing but disgust for himself. He had grabbed her like an asshole as she'd slept and she hadn't pulled away because she probably thought he was Sam.

If his hands weren't occupied, he would have smacked his own forehead.

How was he going to explain himself when she woke up? How could he possibly endure her crestfallen expression, thinking for a second that Sam was alive and holding her close, only to find him, all handsy and inappropriate and reminding her that her former partner was cold in the ground?

He couldn't even bear the thought.

Furious with himself, he began to ease his arms out from under and around her. If he could manage that without waking her, he could then get up, head for the shower, make lots of noise, wake her up, and let her leave his room without having to see him. If she remembered anything, she could write it off as one of no doubt hundreds of dreams where she and Sam were back together and fighting crime in D.C.

His self-pity at the thought didn't last long.

Just as he tried to extract his arms from around her, her own arm tightened around his while her other hand shot to his forearm around her shoulders and clamped down. Still asleep, she made a throaty, sexy trilling noise and she arched back into him, unconsciously forbidding him to move. Her slim back pressed against the planes of his chest. And her evil little bottom rotated invitingly against his hips. Her legs scissored until they caught his and tangled them up. Only when they were thoroughly twisted together did she smile happily and settle down.

_Sam, you were one lucky sonofabitch. _

Pete swore under his breath and halted his retreat. Mostly because she'd wake up if he continued. Mostly because, oh _Christ_, she felt unbelievable as she snuggled closer, all warm and limber from sleep, and refused to let him go.

Pete had never met the guy, but he found himself hating Sam. If this is what that jerk got to wake up to everyday, then how the hell could he possibly stay married to another woman when the _perfect_ woman held him this sweetly, even in her sleep?

Pete couldn't help himself. He had addictive personality disorder, after all. He just needed one hit. One tiny little hit. Then he'd quit. Just like that. Crossed his heart and hoped to die. He lowered his head, nosing into her sinfully pretty hair until he uncovered her ear. Promising to hate himself later, he pressed a small, hungry kiss into the adorable shell, his teeth dragging gently over the rim.

Myka hummed blissfully, tilting her head and giving him better access.

"Peeete," she murmured softly.

His head shot up.

He froze.

He waited.

But she didn't move. She lay contentedly in his arms, just beginning her ascent from a very deep sleep, but nowhere near awake yet. Her little smile turned frowny at the loss of his lips against her skin. Wakefulness was pushing at her eyelids, telling her to open them, even as she fought to stay asleep.

He had no time.

He pulled his arms away from her and quickly stood up. He nearly ran the short distance to the bathroom, casting off clothes and starting the shower. He leapt in without waiting for it to warm up. Hissing against the cold, he threw himself into his cleansing ritual, pretending to Myka and a little to himself that this is where he'd been all along. Not kissing his sleeping partner as she moaned his name while half-naked in his bed. No siree.

_What kiss?_

_What bed?_

Nope, Pete's been here the whole time, scrubbing away.

"Pete?" a groggy voice from the other side of the door.

"Morning, sunshine!" he chirped maniacally. "How did you sleep?"

"Good," the muffled answer came. "Really good, actually. Have you…been up awhile?"

He blinded himself with an enormous blob of shampoo, heedless as the copious lather ran into his eyes. "Yep!" _Christ, man. Quit screeching_. "Half hour or so. You gonna go get ready?"

She didn't answer right away and Pete suddenly wished he could see her. Did she know? Had he left it too late? Right now, was she rubbing her ear, still feeling his kiss pressed into her addictive skin?

He held his breath and waited. Innocent Pete wouldn't need to see her. Innocent Pete would patiently wait for her to answer, maybe with a casual question thrown in.

Guilty-As-Hell Pete aped him as best he could. "Hey. You still out there, partner?"

"Um, yeah." She sounded unsure of even that. "Yeah, I guess I'll go get ready then. Meet you back here in twenty?"

"Twenty!" he called over the spray. "We'll get some breakfast, then hatch a plan. Sound good?"

"Yeah." It was all he got before he heard his door close as she left his room.

Exhaling shakily, he rinsed off quickly and jumped out, dressing in record time.

Settling his t-shirt over his chest, he turned back to the bed. Most of the bedding was at the bottom, save for one corner pulled up to Myka's side. The sides of the bed, their designated sleeping areas, were almost pristine. No evidence of sleep disturbed the pressed, unwrinkled expanse of the fitted sheet.

But the middle.

Pete clicked his teeth as the rumblings of desire threatened him like a faraway storm.

The middle of the bed was a mess. Myka's blanket was waded tightly there. The sheets, upper and fitted, were heavily creased and stressed from their weight and shifts during the night. The affected area was tiny, a mere sliver of the almost seven foot mattress.

It was clear. They'd sought each other out.

Myka had to have migrated to the middle in order for him to spoon her like he did. Just like he had to have moved over considerably to find her there. They'd met in the middle, then held on tight.

The ghost of her body suddenly moved against him again. He could feel her shoulders, her waist, her ass, rocking back into him as she sighed with pleasure. He saw their position in the dull dent they'd made where she'd accepted and teased and convinced him that Myka Bering was undoubtedly a stunning lover.

In a word, the bed looked sexed-up.

He slapped his chest hard, banishing Myka's torturous ghost from him. He went to one of the sides and yanked the sheets up and over the pillows, roughly putting it back together. Fuck the maid service. He didn't want to look at it like this. He went to the other side and did the same before settling the comforter sloppily over the whole thing.

Still messy, but not in a making-love-for-hours kind of way.

He picked up his file from the table and sat down to read it. He had a job to do, goddammit.

Pointy shiny. T_hat's_ why he was here.


	6. Chapter 6

Myka walked slowly back to her room.

She pulled a face. The prospect of her dank, hot quarters did nothing to quicken her pace, but there was another reason that she lagged down the few doors from Pete's room to her own. She needed a minute to think. She was drowsy and disoriented. She was having trouble processing.

As she reached her door and swiped the keycard, she entered her indoor swamp and gently closed the door behind her. The dazzling heat of the unair-conditioned room closed in on her and instantly made her feel faint. She was so glad she'd mustered the courage to ask Pete to share his room. She would have never survived it in here if she'd been forced to sleep for eight hours in that damp, sticky bed.

She tore open the beige curtains, letting the sunlight pour in, upping the heat but burning off a bit of the humidity. In the south, you quickly learn to take the lesser of two evils.

She turned back to the sight of her clean, uninhabited room. Staring at her neatly made bed, she slowly raised her fingers to her ear and traced it carefully.

Yep. She definitely needed a few minutes. Something strange was happening. Something half dream, half late-night reality, and with a central theme.

_Pete_

She recalled waking up last night feeling chilly. That had happened, no question. Then Pete, in his sleepyhead state, had pulled her close. That too had happened. _Absolutely_ no question. She remembered, rather guiltily, that she'd meant to untagle them, but had fallen asleep. And after, she barely allowed herself to admit that in Pete's arms, she'd slept better than she had in years, even when Sam had been alive. She winced at the thought, feeling even more guilty. From the moment Pete had touched her last night, she hadn't thought of Sam once. It was stupid, but she felt unfaithful. Her married ex-lover was dead. There were two reasons right there that should've alleviated her guilt. But still. She couldn't help it. Every single aspect about her relationship with Sam had always felt guilty and shameful. Why would cuddling with her new partner make her feel any different?

Her finger slid around the shell of her ear, pausing over one spot in particular.

Asleep in Pete's arms, she'd dreamt about him.

It had been achingly sweet. She'd imagined that he'd woken up before her, all burrowed into their bed and holding her tight. He'd tried to get up, probably wanting breakfast or the bathroom, but she hadn't let him. He was felt too comfortable against her back, his arms making her feel small and womanly and wanted. His leaving was totally unacceptable. So she'd held him tight and teased him with the promise of something far better than breakfast. She'd pushed into him, wanting him to feel her interest, sighing happily as he gave in and kissed her ear. She'd felt the nip of his teeth and moaned his name, shocked at the sexual charge that shot through her at the light caress.

It had felt so real, more erotic than any dream she'd ever had. Even now she could still feel the tingle of his lips as they pressed softly but hungrily against her. But the dream had shifted after that. It went cold. The warm shelter of him disappeared. The press of his arms vanished. In confusion, her eyes had fluttered open and she'd found herself alone in Pete's bed, the man himself in the bathroom next door. None of it had been real, save for when he'd actually grabbed her in the night.

Her disappointment was as bitter as it was baffling.

Why was she dreaming about Pete in the first place? Why was the idea of waking up to his kisses so exhilarating? And why would she care if a sexy dream about him turned out to be _just a dream_? This was Pete we were talking about here. Pete! Annoying, half-cocked, childish, impatient, sloppy, cookie monster Pete! Everything about him drove her crazy. The way he ate his cereal. The perma-messy state of his room. His lame little dance routines. His half-assed work ethic. His stupid vibes that came out of nowhere, showing them the way and ruining hours of her meticulous research that had led her to the same conclusion. He didn't even have to work for them. They just slipped into that thick skull of his and left a note.

_The butler did it. The artifact's in his sock drawer. Tell Artie. Irritate Myka_. -The Vibe

God, it was so unfair. She huffed loudly, stripping out of her tank top and shorts, heading for her own shower. As she flipped the faucet on and waited impatiently for it to warm up, she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the long mirror over the sink. As steam began to fill the small space, she appraised her reflection. She took in her tall shape. Ungainly, she thought. Too lanky and stick-like to be truly feminine.

Her friends had always told her she was crazy. They had sworn that they'd kill for her long legs. Her curly hair. Her dark eyes. They'd even called her lovely.

She had snorted at the description and buried herself under more black power suits. She wasn't lovely. She just had sweet friends. The truth was that she was mannish. She was taller than many men. She was stronger and more capable than most of them, too. She could take all comers in a fight and probably win. She was a warrior. Not a lady. She bit her lips in misery.

_Screw this_, she thought. _I don't have time to feel sorry for myself._

She turned slightly to the side, about to get into the shower, and froze as she caught the change in the mirror. By turning just three inches to the left, her reflection had transformed. Her waist still looked slim, her arms and legs still long, but the side view had accentuated the swell of her breasts. The high, pert curve of her ass met with surprising grace to her lower back. Her curls fell seductively over her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the image.

Unbidden, her imagination conjured Pete behind her, every bit as naked and planting soft, urgent kisses on her shoulders. She'd never seen him naked, her mind worked with what it had seen of him clothed. Barefoot, she was a few inches shorter than he was. He had to lower his face to reach her. The larger dimensions of his body made hers look small and decidely female as his rough hands worked their way over her pale skin and his lips drank her in. Pete looked beautiful. That didn't surprise her at all.

What shocked Myka was that the image of Pete making love to her made _her_ look beautiful. Her body softened under his ghosted touch. Her lips parted. Her eyes went almost black. She gasped softly at the transformation. The mere thought of Pete had made her lovely. It had stripped her tough chick exterior, leaving her quivering with anticipation.

And she loved it.

She gave a tiny moan, almost begging for him to continue. For the first time in many years, Myka felt a deep pulse in her lower belly that wasn't tinged with shame. Okay, so Pete was annoying, sure. He got under her skin as nothing ever had. But Pete was kind. He was thoughtful and funny. He made her laugh. More importantly, he _tried_ to make her laugh. He worried about her. He'd rather die than hide how he felt behind the pokerfaced avatar that every agent wore. And most of all, Pete was available. He had grabbed ahold of her because he belonged to no one but himself. And neither did she. It felt liberating to yearn for a man without feeling like a home-wrecking, thieving bitch. To sleep in his arms without feeling like she was on borrowed time. To wake up in his bed alone and know that he hadn't slunk back to his wife in the night.

Her desire for Pete felt clean.

The shower spat and labored before returning to a normal spray. The sound startled her from her daydream and the vision of Pete disappeared.

Myka blinked and cursed softly.

All of this speculation and longing was pointless. Pete hadn't kissed her. Pete had grabbed her, dreaming of one of his many women he'd mistaken her for. Pete was good to her, but then Pete was good to everyone. And he flirted with her because Pete's woo landed on absolutely everything in a skirt. She should know better than to think she was special.

She tore the curtain aside and stepped into the pelting water.

She had no time to spare for this.

She had no hurt to spare for it, either.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Myka threw some clothes on, called room service for Pete's room, then found him bent studiously over his file in his room. He barely looked up as she stepped through his open door. He grunted acknowledgement, but kept his eyes glued to his dossier.

Weird, but whatever. If Pete wanted to read for a change, she could hardly comment on it. She was always yelling at him to prepare more thoroughly.

"So," she fell down into the chair opposite his and picked up her copy. "What's the plan, killer?"

He flicked a glance her way before looking back down. "Weeeeell," he drew out. "My intricate, super-secret course of action is…donuts?"

She smirked. "Already on their way. Your super-secret plan? Is actually just you jonesing for sugar."

His grin nearly knocked her over. "You're always thinkin' of me. Is it cuz you looooove me?"

Oh, God. The song was coming.

"I love my sanity, actually. Making you quiet and goal-oriented means getting you junk food. I'm saving _myself_, see?"

_That, and you're lovable_.

_Ew_, Myka scolded her brain for thinking something so mushy. _Shut up_.

"So, plan?" she said aloud.

"Okay, here's what I think. There are two people we need to talk to. Katie Price and the priest. I say we each take one and meet up later to compare notes."

Myka nodded and got up to answer the knock at the door. "Okay. Which one do you want?"

Room service handed her a tray and she thanked them. Balancing it carefully, she slid some of their paperwork aside to make room for it on the small table and lifted the silver lid.

Pete sighed happily. "Chocolate with rainbow sprinkles."

She snorted and pulled her bran muffin from the diabetic nightmare pile of Pete's breakfast.

"I told them I had a kid in here," she joked.

"Hey, I'm a big boy," Pete objected, biting into a chocolate ring. "Dressed myself and everything."

"I'm still pinning mittens and my phone number to your shirt," she replied smilingly. "If you get lost, remember to find a policeman. He'll make sure you get home."

Giggling at each other, they ate the rest of their meal in silence.

With a final bite and a swipe of her napkin, Myka spoke up. "I'll take the priest. You go see Katie and see what she had to say about this mess."

Still chewing, Pete nodded. "Deal," he said after swallowing. She saw his Adam's apple dip sharply as he did so. She suppressed the sudden desire lean across the table and press her lips into his throat.

_God's sake_! she cried inwardly. _Get it together!_

She stood up quickly. "I'll call a cab. You take the car and call me when you're done."

Still nodding, he watched her put her files back together before heading for the door.

"Myka?"

She turned, her hand on the knob. "Yeah?"

He gazed at her, warm concern simmering in the dark brown. "Be careful?"

She smiled softly. "If he sells voodoo dolls, your ass is my new pin cushion."

She walked out.


	7. Chapter 7

Pete knocked on the door of a stately looking home and waited patiently. It opened to a pleasant woman in her early forties. Upswept brunette hair, a shawl draped lightly over her shoulders, Katie Price gazed calmly at the handsome stranger on her doorstep.

"Yes?"

Pete dutifully pulled his badge and showed it to her. "Agent Pete Lattimer, ma'am, of the Secret Service. I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding Judge Ackerman."

The woman's eyes flickered. She drew herself up, pulling her shawl more tightly around herself. "I see," she replied coolly. She opened the door wider and gestured inside. "Do come in."

Pete thanked her. Following her into a comfortable sitting room, he lowered himself in a plush wingback, sitting forward so as not to fall too far into its cozy depths. Katie sat gracefully across from him on a Chesterfield, her eyes guarded all the while, but her overall demeanor remaining polite.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Her southern manners shone through.

"Well," Pete began, "I understand that these have been a trying coupla days for you, ma'am, but I need to ask about the situation that led to the judge's attack on you. Can you please explain to me what happened?"

Katie smiled tightly, inhaling through her nose, bracing herself. "Very well," she agreed finally. "Wallace came to my office that day. My secretary buzzed him in. There was nothing unusual about his visits. He came to see me often to discuss cases or other court business."

She paused and gave him a knowing look.

"I know what they're saying, Agent Lattimer," she said.

"Pete," he interjected.

"Pete," she echoed, continuing. "I've heard all the rumors. Apparently we've been having an affair. Have been for years. All those visits to my office and late nights at the courthouse, those were all just risqué locations for our adulterous carryings on."

Myka's image flashed through his mind at the word _adulterous_. He crushed the link between them immediately. Myka was _not _an adulteress. Fuck if she had been involved with a quasi-married man. It wasn't the same. The word didn't apply if it was going to sound so cheap.

Katie went on, her hands twisting slightly in her lap. "I can assure you, for whatever it's worth, that we were not involved romantically." She smiled again, this time with more warmth. "I cared for Wallace very much. In another life, perhaps we might have come together. But all we have is this life and in this life, Wallace is married." She raised her hands slightly. "So that's that."

He leaned forward slightly. "What happened when he came to you?"

Her gaze turned down slightly as she accessed the memory. "I can set the scene for you, but to be honest, I have no idea what _happened_. I've never seen anything like it in my life. The man who walked into my office was _not_ Wallace Ackerman. He was a lunatic. He fell to his knees and began babbling all sorts of crazy nonsense. He loved me. Couldn't live without me. Wanted to marry me and take me away on a boat to the South China seas, or some such. I thought he was joking. Some kind of silly April Fool's Day in the wrong month," she said dryly.

"I laughed him off and told him to quit being ridiculous. That made him extremely agitated. He insisted he was perfectly serious. By this time, I was starting to see that he was. Except he _couldn't _have been. Wallace and I might have cared for each other, but we've never spoken of it. It wouldn't have been fitting. We simply held each other in high esteem and let that be enough. For him to declare himself in such an inappropriate, sophomoric way was impossibly out of character. I told him to stop it immediately. He got angry and insisted I leave with him right then at that very moment."

She looked at Pete with mild astonishment.

"He struck me. I would never have believed it of him. I refused to move and he struck me. He was literally dragging me out of my office when my secretary called security. Their arrival pushed him over the edge. He started screaming. Howling, really. Like an animal."

She shivered at the memory. "I haven't seen him since."

Pete nodded respectfully. "Do you believe that Wallace was in love with you, Miss Price? Before that day?"

She took a deep breath and shrugged tiredly. "I don't know, Pete. I really don't. I could flatter myself and say that perhaps he did. Perhaps he harbored a small flame for me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have the same for him. But please don't misunderstand. I _never _wanted what he offered. Any of it. I was raised to be a god-fearing woman, sir. I do not covet my neighbor's husband, nor do I envy or lust. I was happy with our relationship as it stood. Even if he had broached the subject in a more…muted fashion, shall we say? I would have refused him."

Pete read her delivery carefully before coming to the conclusion that he believed her. It felt unlikely that this 'god-fearing woman' would pay a voodoo priest to cast spells and disrupt a Christian marriage for her own romantic interests. As she said, it seemed impossibly out of character.

He asked his final question. "Do you think something might have happened to him to bring this out? Illness? Mid-life crisis? Anything?"

She nodded in agreement. "I'd considered all of those things. The doctor found nothing wrong with him at all, and while the psychiatrist says there's definitely something wrong, he isn't sure what." She chuckled without mirth. "Why, if I don't know better, I'd say…" she trailed off, still smiling, and looked at the floor.

"You'd say?" Pete prodded.

She looked up again. "I'd say Cupid struck him."

Pete said nothing. He rose and dipped his chin to her. "Thank you, Miss Price. I appreciate your time."

She nodded and rose as well. "Of course, agent. Very best of luck to you."

He saw himself out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Myka paid the cabbie and told him to come back in an hour. Turning to the secluded house behind her, she suddenly felt cold as the taxi took off down the long dirt road back to civilization.

It was only twenty minutes out of town, but looking up at the two-story, white clapboarded residence, Myka ardently wished she and Pete hadn't split up. She was picking up some seriously sinister vibes from this place, and she wasn't even the vibey one. Pete would have known instantly. He would have stood by her side, taken one look at this place and said, "Nope. We're not going in there unless the SWAT are backing us up."

And she would have believed him. And they would have waited for support. But without Pete with her, she had to make the call. And her rational mind said that there was nothing to fear but fear itself. There was nothing in the house before her that should lead her to believe she's in danger. It was just a house.

She swallowed and made her feet move. _Just a house._

She knocked firmly on the screen door, checking the slip of paper in her hand. "Mr. Kusamba?" she read out loud. "I'm Agent Bering of the Secret Service. May I have a word with you please?"

She squinted through the screen into the dark entrance of the house. She could just make out a front room and kitchen at the back. The windows were tinted heavily with years of grime. The interior smelled strongly. And while she couldn't see specific objects, she got the distinct impression of junk. Lots and lots of junk, piled high and in every corner. She pushed slowly at the screen, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

"Mr. Kusamba?" she repeated. "Sir? I'm entering your home. Please confirm that you can hear me by answering."

Nothing.

Myka took a deep breath and pressed further inside. She took small steps, avoiding the huge stacks of old boxes and papers strewn about the floor. If the mess didn't look so old and deliberate, she would have sworn it had been tossed. Ghoulish masks leered at her from the walls. Ancient glass bottles of all shapes, sizes and colors filled the book shelves and littered the countertops, their faded labels no longer legible. The air was heavy with strange, rich herbs that she couldn't identify and a stench of burnt hair.

At the bottom of the darkened staircase, she called up with pretend firmness.

"Mr. Kusamba? It's incredibly important that I speak with you. I'm coming up the stairs. Please don't be alarmed. I just need to ask you a few questions."

She ascended the steps, each one creaking under her weight, the noise wreaking havoc on her resolve.

This place felt wrong. Unnatural and wrong. Bad things went on here, she could practically smell it in the herbs and hair. They were used for no good, she could tell. Just like she could read it in the silence. It was unnatural silence, like a vacuum. Or like ancient ruins. The sound of no human warmth or habitation for thousands of years. The sound of dust.

But her rational mind kept her moving. It was just an empty house. Nothing more. Creepy, but human creepy. The world was full of creepy people. She'd dealt with them every day in D.C. This place was no different. Keep it together and do your job.

She reached the top of the stairs and took in her surroundings carefully. The upstairs was one large room, stuffed to the brim with more curio. More bottles. More boxes. More mazes creating purely from junk. She moved through them carefully, her trained eyes seeing and reading everything there was and filing it away.

"Hello?" she called dutifully.

A small gust of wind teased her hair. Goose bumps broke out on her arms.

Fuck it.

She pulled her gun, holding it upright. Her instincts were screaming danger and her brain was officially outvoted. She would continue, but the gun stayed out.

"Hello?"

Another gust of air, a total lack of sound, and suddenly a razor-sharp tip was against her cheek, a menacing presence materializing behind her back.

"Whoo aaare yoou?" a deep Creole voice hissed quietly in her ear.

Stone cold terror crashed into Myka like a freezing wave. She gasped sharply and held her weapon aloft, showing it to him. The blade against her cheek dug harder. Myka froze.

_Oh God, please be a knife._

"I'm Agent Bering of the Secret Service. My badge is on my belt. If you'll let me reach for it, I can—,"

The pain at her cheek intensified. She halted her reach and went still.

"Please sir, if you'll put away your weapon, I can properly identify myself to you. I just need to ask you questions about—,"

"The judge maaan and the laaawyer laaady," the voice hissed again, his accent lilting with hundred of years of French and English and slave languages intermingled.

"Yes," she whispered breathlessly. "Yes, exactly."

Any other suspect, or any other suspected artifact, would have met with an elbow in the stomach and a fist to the nose, but Myka didn't even think it. All her terror would let her think about was the judge and his mystery cut that healed itself and made him go crazy. She couldn't see, but she already knew. An arrowhead was against her cheek. A dull, leaden arrowhead. She thought of her father. Her mother. Her former boss. Artie. Would a lead arrow make her occasional and mild irritation with these people turn to unstoppable rage? Would she hunt them down? Hurt them? She trembled against the point and prayed.

_Dear God, don't let him cut me. Don't let me hurt anyone I've felt anger towards in the past. Especially…_

She nearly whimpered as another name entered her mind.

_Oh, sweet Christ. Please don't let me hurt him. Not Pete. Please not Pete. _

The ghostly presence behind her must have read her mind. He chuckled darkly. "Aaaah, nooo. A liar girl," he accused softly.

She would have shaken her head in innocence, but the tip wouldn't let her.

"Liiies about the court pee-paaal. You here abaht the aaarrooows."

"No!" she cried in panic. "No, I promise!"

"You _knooow_," the voice sounded amused. "You ah ba-leeevah."

"Oh, God," she rasped. "Please just put it down."

The presence that she prayed was just a human man grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her throat and face. She squeezed her eyes shut. If he cut her, she'd fight it. She didn't know how, but she'd fight. She lock herself up. She'd tie herself down. She'd take on whatever magic spell that spilled into her blood and made her want to kill everyone she loved just because they had words every now and then.

The point traced lovingly over her jaw and down to her throat.

"You afraaid, agent laaady?"

"Yes," she whispered honestly.

"You knooow whaht'll haahppen?"

"Yes," she repeated.

The tip pressed down and Myka felt her thin skin break under the pressure. I single drop of moisture fell from pinprick of pain.

Her blood.

It was all over.

Myka screamed with fury and whirled around. There was no ghost behind her, but an ancient Creole priest, holding an arrow shaft in his hand, its tip red with blood, and grinning like a maniac.

"You'll knooow now," he purred cruelly, waving the arrow lightly under her nose.

Her hand shot out and ripped the shaft from his hand, cracking it in half as her other arm curled and struck him across the face. He backed up quickly and flew down the stairs, running for the front door. Myka wanted to go after him, but suddenly the whole room shifted and dipped. She stumbled against a pile of boxes, holding her throat and sobbing as she groped for a handhold in the rubbish and found nothing. She fell to the floor, hot tears flooding her cheeks.

Shivering in the sweltering heat of the loft, she reached behind her back for her cuffs. She had no idea how much time she had, but she knew it wasn't much. The arrow's spell would take hold any moment. She needed to be restrained when it did. She felt her cuffs in their case, but couldn't manage to pull them out. Her coordination was draining fast. She felt like someone had slipped her a roofie. Her vision was blurring. Her movements were drunken and slow. She laid out fully on the floor, hyperventilating, too scared and messed up to even move.

Facedown on the wooden planked floor, she saw a slim, broken shaft laying half under an old newspaper. It was smaller than normal arrows, only as long as her forearm. Its tiny feathers were matted from age and rough treatment. The tip was still shiny and red.

Gasping against the blackness threatening to overwhelm her, she reached out and swiped at it until her fingers closed over its broken joint.

She dragged it to her, furious with it and herself for letting it prick her. She thumbed over the head, intent on seeing the matte, pewter-like color of hate. Her blood slid with her thumb and revealed the true color of the head.

Myka gasped.

With her last bit of strength, she tucked the arrow, broken shaft and all, into her jacket. Somewhere outside, she heard a ruckus of some kind. She wasn't sure. Maybe she was dreaming it.

Her eyes fell shut against her will and she gave one last gasp of stifled breath before falling into the black well all around her. Her last conscious thought was a single word.

_Gold gold gold gold gold_


	8. Chapter 8

A vibe crashed into Pete halfway between Miss Price's home and their hotel. He hadn't called to check in, he'd just assumed that he and Myka would meet back up at the hotel and brief each other once their respective interviews were over. Strangely, they hadn't confirmed it as a meeting place, yet Pete knew they'd both head back there despite the dozens of restaurants and cafes in the area. He told himself it had something to do with the air conditioning and how relaxing they both found it. Or maybe because they could just as easily get room service and not have to worry about keeping their supernatural conversations low and whispery. Or maybe how unusually comfy the chairs were in his room.

_Or the fact that they'd shared his bed._

He bit his lip hard and told his thoughts to shut the hell up. They hadn't 'shared his bed'. They'd slept in the same ten feet of space that happened to _be_ a bed. Totally friggin' different.

But none of that mattered the minute he felt her terror rise up in him as organically as if it were his own. She was afraid for her life. Somewhere. Alone.

Pete flipped a 180 and drove over 90 miles an hour down streets he'd didn't recognize. Sweat broke out all over him and he fought to keep his breathing calm as he edged between cars and jumped divides at random. Usually, his feelings were tempered by skepticism. They were often wrong, after all. A battle of wills waged constantly in his head. But this time his fear for Myka kept his vibe as pure and distilled as bottled water. It controlled his hands and drove the car for him, his adrenaline acting as a divining rod. It would lead him to her, so he stepped on the gas harder and let it.

He also prayed like hell that he was wrong.

The SUV bucked as he plowed onto a dirt road without slowing. He took the bumps and dips at a punishing speed, cursing how they slowed him down. He saw an old white house in the distance and knew Myka was inside, scared and possibly injured. Or worse. Pete swore loudly again and punched it.

A figure emerged from the house, running as fast as they were able, as he skittered into the driveway.

_Myka's attacker_

He leapt from the car without killing the engine or putting it in park, letting it idle and roll backwards as he took off after the guy. They both took off towards the tree line, the man having a considerable lead on him as they both sprinted for the forest.

He was old. Pete could see that much. Elderly. Black. And guilty of hurting his partner. Pete skidded to a halt and raised his gun. "Stop right there or I'll shoot!"

He meant it. He'd blow the guy's head off if he didn't drop to the ground right fucking now.

Pete sized the man up along with barrel of his weapon, ready to take him down and fuck the paperwork, but the unimaginable happened. Just as the white of his clothing flashed in his sights, the man disappeared. Completely. Not into the trees. Not down into the grass. But into thin air. Poof. Gone. Pete's eyes widened from their firing squint and his jaw dropped in shock.

"What the..?"

He lowered his weapon, narrowing his gaze, trying to figure out how a man could vanish without a trace only thirty feet away from him in a clearing in broad daylight. The professional in him wanted to jog over and check the ground, looking for some trace of him.

But his much bigger heart had other priorities.

"Myka," he rasped.

He ran towards the house like a shot. The flimsy screen door nearly exploded off its hinges as he plowed through it. "MYKA!" he shouted.

Nothing but junk everywhere. Pete started tearing piles of it down, looking wildly for her. The downstairs was a small area and he didn't see anything. His vibe yanked him up the stairs. Taking three steps at a time, he came to the top of the landing and nearly tripped over her prone body.

"Myka!"

He fell to his knees. She was on her side, her arms and legs bent in odd angles. Her face was pressed against the filthy floor. He couldn't see anything wrong with her, so he flipped her gently until she was lying unconscious across his thighs, face up in his arms. Fingers trembling, he traced the lines of her lovely cheekbones.

"My?" he questioned timidly. "My, come on. Open your eyes for me."

There was blood on her fingers, but other than that, he couldn't discern any injuries. Maybe she'd gotten lucky and hurt the bastard before he'd knocked her out.

_Maybe he cast some voodoo shit and killed her outright._

"Shut up!" he hissed at himself. Cursing his own sloppiness, he thought to check her pulse. For the second time, he put his fingers to her throat and pressed firmly. Thready and weak, it answered him.

Tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap

"Good girl," he rasped as he gathered her to him. "We've got that much. Now I need you to wake up." He slid his legs more fully underneath her, hugging her torso as he caressed her face. His throat was closing up. He needed her to wake up soon or something terrible was going to happen, starting with him trying to kill himself on a spectacular bender.

He cradled her head, barking an angry, appreciative laugh as he finally got to fill his hands with those amazingly soft, silky curls. He needed to call an ambulance. He needed to call the local PD and have them start searching these woods for that prick.

He needed to…

He needed…

He pressed his lips against her ear and told her what he needed. "Come back to me, baby," he whispered shakily, kissing the same ear he had just hours before.

Keeping his lips pressed against her, his eyes shut tight, he murmured softly to her. "You need to wake up," he choked on the light tone he tried to conjure. "Who's going to kick that guy's ass if not you? Huh? Who's going to kick _my _ass for kissing you when you're asleep? Hmm? Didn't know about that, did you? Well, I did. And I'll keep doing it unless you wake up and tear my head off."

He kissed her cheek, her temple, the curls in his hands, everything so soft and delicious that he almost fell into the pure sensation of her and didn't notice immediately that her eyes were fluttering.

"Please." Kisses on her forehead. "Pleeeaase." Kisses along her jaw.

Myka fought the thick fog in her head, vaguely aware of being kissed to pieces. Her rational mind had no idea who would try such a stunt with her while she was unconscious. Who the hell would be that suicidal? Luckily, her rational mind didn't answer the door.

"Pete?" her hopes ventured softly.

His head shot up and he grinned. "Hey, you." His voice was shaky with relief as he yanked her closer and held her tight. "What the hell are you doing, scaring me like that?"

She felt his hands moving restlessly over her arm and in her hair. His forehead was pressed firmly into her cheek. She coughed on the dust she'd inhaled and Pete backed off a bit, letting her sit up in his lap.

She shook her head groggily. "He was here," she said thickly. "He attacked me and I couldn't—,"

"I know," Pete said soothingly, still holding onto her. "I saw him run out."

Still not moving away from him, she turned in his arms to look at him angrily. "You didn't go after him? Why didn't you pursue?"

_Oh, for crying out… Ridiculous, by-the-book, Type A…_

"I did," Pete explained patiently. "I nearly blew his head off. But he just vanished. I didn't pursue because I'm not a freakin' magician. That, and I knew you were hurt."

She raised her brows to him and pressed her lips together, lips only inches away from his own. "You knew I was hurt?" she asked doubtingly.

He gave her a knowing look and tapped his temple.

She sighed, the airless heat of the room making her slump further into him. "I vibed you? Is that what you're saying?"

He chuckled and nodded. "I guess that's right. You vibed me. Our own little pager system."

Myka made a weak attempt to struggle to her feet. "And you say you're not a magician." Her feet wobbled under her weight and she began to slide back down, but a pair of sure, steady hands reached up and kept her aloft.

"Push," he directed from under her. "I'll hold you."

She did as told and slowly came to her feet, Pete jumping to his once she was up. Heedless of her boundary issues, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

"I'm fine," she pushed at him weakly.

"Well I'm not," he argued. "You scared the shit out of me and now I'm helping you to the car and we're taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Her eyes widened. "No hospital. I'm fine, really." Wanting to convince him, she stopped pushing and let him hug her around the middle. "Really," she looked him in the eye and kept her voice calm and low. "He just," _pricked me with our artifact_, "knocked me out. I'm okay. See?" She held out her arms and bared her face and throat to him, letting her see her lack of injury. She already knew from the judge's story that her cut was already long gone.

Pete leaned back, their hips settling together, as he took in her display. He clucked his tongue in reluctance. She did indeed appear to be unhurt.

Myka watched his face as he processed. Furtively, she kept her forearms outstretched, but kept her left, upper arm clenched securely against her side. Her little secret poked uncomfortably into her flesh. _Like it matters now_, she thought ruefully. She could only thank her lucky stars that she had been cut with that gold, sporty number and not one of his uglier cousins. She had no concerns, outside of it making her feel woozy and slightly drunk.

Gold was acceptable. She remembered that Artie had explicitly told them that neither arrow could _create _emotion. And while she harbored plenty of angry, impatient emotions for many people, she wasn't in love. The gold arrow was a placebo of mercy. Thank God for small favors.

Still, she didn't want Pete getting all worried and brotherly about it. He'd insist she go to a hospital. No arguments. Even though nothing could be discerned of her exposure, not medically anyway. The judge had seen several doctors that they'd garnered precisely squat.

She held still under his appraisal until she felt him relax and nod in defeat. "All right, no hospital. But!" He poked his finger at her. "You feel weird at any point, you tell me. Got it?"

She rolled her eyes at his attempt at authority and nodded back. "Fine. Just call it in for us. The grounds need to be searched. As does the house. The arrows might be somewhere in this mess."

Pete cocked his head at the room and scanned it. He hadn't even been thinking about the arrows. Myka's distress had drawn him here. It hadn't allowed for any other concern. Now, as he took in this packrat goldmine, he realized she was right. Their job might already be over. The man outside hadn't carried anything with him. Maybe their artifact was a scavenger hunt away from letting them go home.

He carefully led her to the landing banister and put her hands on it. "Stay," he commanded.

She made a face. "Woof woof." But did as he said.

He pulled his phone and made the call to the local authorities and gave them the abridged version. Good guys in bad guy's home. Need back up. Find said bad guy. Search house. Find two quivers of arrows. Never you mind why, just do it.

He flipped his normal phone shut and pulled out the Farnsworth. He summoned Artie's image and gave him a quick rundown of their progress before snapping it shut and coming back to Myka. Over her objections, he helped her to the car. Over her objections, he drove them back to the hotel once the police got to the scene and ordered their weight in room service.

Myka couldn't help but smile as he hung up with the kitchen. He tried so hard to make her feel better. Watching him walk across the room to flip on the tv, she was powerless to stop the flood of warmth she felt as his back rippled impressively under his t-shirt and his ass did things in those jeans that were probably illegal in this state.

Still feeling the press of broken wood in her side, she stood up with what she hoped looked like casualness. "Hey, I'm gonna go change into something less dusty and check to see if they fixed my AC. Back in a sec?"

He turned and smiled. "Cool. Hurry, though. I ordered you a sundae the size of a bowling ball."

"I don't eat sugar," she repeated for a millionth time.

His smile grew devilish. "I'm pretty sure there's no sugar in an ice cream sundae."

She snorted and chose not to pursue his teasing. Walking quickly down the hall and into her room, she was dismayed to feel that the AC was still off. She poked savagely at the panel next the door, hoping maybe it was fixed, but just off. No such luck. The button stayed unlit and the room stayed devoid of cool air. Swearing softly, she opened her jacket and pulled her second frustration out from her side.

The mangled little shaft hung limply in her hand, a bit of her dried blood still staining the tip. Frowning, she turned it in her hands, looking at it from all angles. She wasn't an expert, but it did indeed look very old. The wood of the shaft looked ancient, cut thousands of years ago by long dead bowmen. The feathers, far beyond their pretty days, were gray from age and use. The tip alone could have been forged yesterday. The gold, never rusting, was glitteringly beautiful, but was still a poor choice for an arrow tip. It was too soft, Myka knew. Too malleable to truly work as a weapon. But the stick in her hand wasn't a weapon. Death, nor even injury, was its intent.

She couldn't help the smug smile that skittered over her lips. That priest had chose the wrong chica if he thought he could subdue her with this thing. It was insulting, really. A girl was wondering around his house, so what does he grab to ward her off? A love stick. Had he seriously thought that just because she was a girl, she must be madly in love with some prince? And now that she'd been struck, she'd run after him like a drunk co-ed? She snorted with proud distain.

Fuck that noise.

She was Myka Bering. She was no one's simpering ho.

She shoved the arrow into her suitcase, under her spare socks. She couldn't risk the maid service finding it in the room. Once she and Pete resumed work and recovered the quivers, she'd pull it out and explain what happened. Pete would be angry at her for not telling him, but it had to be done. He was too overprotective and there was work to do.

She changed into her tank top and shorts again. Having already asked him once before, she felt much braver at asking Pete to share his room again. They could spend the rest of the night eating dinner, swapping notes, and maybe watch a movie.

_And hope he cuddles close again._

"Shut up," she said absently, and padded back to Pete's room.


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in his life, the same vibe hit Pete twice. Also for the first time, it happened while he was asleep.

The rest of the night had been relaxing and uneventful. Myka, cool as a cucumber despite her attack earlier, had been laying on her stomach on his bed as she recounted her brief 'interview' with the priest. It gelled with Pete's impression of the man. She entered his home, he came out of nowhere and caught her unawares, guessed why she was there, then clobbered her.

Pete sat on one of his comfy chairs, facing his partner and trying not to look down her tank top like a perv as he spoke to her. "Why didn't you clobber him first?" he asked dubiously. "He may have gotten the drop on you, but I've never seen anyone touch you and get their hand back unbroken. What gave?"

Myka, unaware of her cleavage teasing the hell out of Pete, looked down guiltily and shrugged. "I was worried he might have an arrow," she told half-truthfully. She looked back up at him and gave him another gray-area fact. "I didn't want to end up like Ackerman."

Pete seemed to accept this. He nodded, then gave a quick rundown of his own meeting with Katie. She confirmed their suspicions, but didn't shed any light on who might be responsible for paying for the spell.

"Does that really matter?" Myka asked, her bare legs crossing and recrossing behind her. "I mean, it's not really important, is it? Once we find the arrows, we'll scratch Ackerman and any other afflicted people with the correlating arrow and just be on our way. Who cares who wanted them angry or lusty?"

Pete sighed tiredly. "I guess. It just feels wrong. Someone out there made a hellava mess here."

Myka waved her hand dismissively. "Someone was desperate and went to a witchdoctor. We can't throw them in jail just because the spell happened to work. How many people out there pay for voodoo with no luck? Are we going to arrest all of them? Just because they put purple crystals under their bed and pray for a million dollars or a soulmate?"

Pete was silent as he took in her point. It was odd, but it made sense. Arresting someone for beseeching The Powers That Be was pointless. There were churches full of prayers and cults full of chickens' feet, all given over to the supernatural in hopes of turning the tides in favor of the giver.

So far as he knew, that wasn't the right or the interest of the Secret Service.

At length, he agreed. "Fine. Arrows only. So that leaves the rest of the night open. Whatchawannado?"

Myka smiled and cast her eyes over the graveyard of half-empty dishes and trays littering the bed and table. He'd actually managed to get her to eat half of her giant sundae. Man, she'd feel that in the morning. "Honestly?" she asked.

"Of course."

She gave him a squidged-up, guilty look. "Can we just lay in bed and watch a movie or something? I'm beat and don't feel particularly fun right now."

Pete bit his lower lip, letting his tongue wet it before letting it slide out from under his teeth again. His thinking nibble, as Claudia called it. Myka saw something dark flash in his eyes before it disappeared again. It was gone before she could identify it.

She smiled her best, albeit sleepy smile before mouthing to him wordlessly, knowing he would read it. _Pleeeeaaaase?_

After all, he'd already agreed to let her sleep in here again. What was the big deal if they watched a flick first? She waited quietly for his answer.

"Sure," he said after a longer-than-expected pause. "Sounds great."

They had cleared the bed, burrowed under the covers, and found a late night showing of _Jaws_. Myka joked that there wasn't a late night anywhere in the world that passed without someone watching _Jaws_ for the millionth time and still loving it. Pete chuckled, settling deeper into the bed.

They kept a professional, but comfortable distance from each other. Each knew how they'd ended up the night before, yet neither knew that the other person knew. Each was secretly hoping for a repeat, yet also hoping that the other person was the initiator. Myka lost the battle to stay awake first. Slowly turning until she was curled on her side, she fell asleep facing Pete. Her hair fell across her cheek as she tucked her hands under her head and sighed. Pete glanced down and felt his heart turn over.

Damn it all if watching Myka sleep next to him wasn't the sweetest, prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Of all of his past lovers (and there had been more than a few) Myka, his friend and his colleague, felt like the most natural and endearing bed partner in the world. Never having even kissed her lips, he could easily imagine this becoming their routine. Fighting bad guys, tracking down rabbit-sprouting top hats and possessed mood rings, and finding each other between the sheets at night. And it wasn't just bone-snapping sex that he wanted. He imagined pulling her sleeping form over to him and stroking her back reassuringly. She'd been attacked, after all. It was only right that he comfort her and make her feel safe. Or when he had a particularly bad day and the pull of the bottle was strong. He'd been fighting with it alone for eight years. Oh, to crawl into bed with a sexy, warm woman who understood how he wrestled with himself. She—okay, Myka—would wrap her loving body around him, petting him and whispering softly, "You're stronger than that, Pete."

He often feared that he'd fall of the wagon eventually. But if that fantasy ever played out, he was certain he'd never touch a drop ever again. Why the fuck would he drink if Myka Bering took him to bed and did her damnedest to make him forget?

Looking at her beautiful face, Pete shuddered and looked away. The dim blue light of the tv played on the sheets over his body. The prominent outline of his hard-on was visible to all, even through his track pants and the comforter. He fisted his hands until the bite of his short nails broke the skin of his palms.

He liked the pain. He deserved it.

_Her fucking AC is broken_, he hissed inwardly. _She's not here to fuck you stupid, anymore than she's here to play sponsor to your pathetic addiction. Stop being such an asshole, Lattimer. Let her sleep next to you without lusting after her every little thing. Turn the damn movie off and go to bed._

He flipped the remote and the room went dark. He settled down on his back. He knew he should turn on his side, away from her, but he just couldn't make it happen. He wanted her in the corner of his eye. He wanted to bask her heat.

He wanted to…

He wanted…

He fell asleep with his partner at his side.

It was just before dawn when the vibe hit him again. Just like all of his vibes, it wasn't visual. It rose from somewhere in the black depths of his sleep and activated his dreams. He usually didn't dream much, so the stage was clear when the sensation ghosted into his mind, undulating slowly, like ripples in a dark sheet. It didn't take shape right away. All Pete was aware of was it was warm. Warm and wonderfully pleasant. A hum a contentment echoed in his skull as little certainties made their way to him one at a time.

The first certainty was the he was loved. Utterly and completely. His strengths, his faults, his past, his future, everything about him was accepted and adored. The power of the sensation was overwhelming. It filled his chest with white hot exhilaration and his lungs felt crushed. He had to breathe around it. He inhaled sharply as he dreamt.

The second certainty was that he was _being_ loved. While the emotion of the first filled his chest, the physicality of the second filled his groin. He was being touched—worshipped, really—by torturously light fingers and whispering lips. They were tracing his outline, learning him. Pete's subconscious whimpered softly as the feathery explorations fluttered over his stomach, followed by warm kisses and a playful dip into his bellybutton.

Lower.

Lower.

Soft soft soft.

His thighs were mapped with the same loving fascination. His erection, rock-hard and aching savagely, was skirted deliberately. It was being saved for last. A finale. His tender little admirer caressed deep between his legs and he jolted hard under the touch. His usual, cocky demeanor melted away and humility stole the very air he was trying to pull. He didn't deserve this intense purity being lavished onto him. Nothing done with his life warranted it. He was just a man. A flawed man. No flawed man merited this kind of love. It was so exquisite and ethereal that didn't think his body could physically withstand it. It was like hearing the voice of God. No mortal could do so and live.

Then suddenly Her presence engulfed him. Fully. She took him into a warm, wet heaven and proceeded to destroy him with pleasure. The feeling kick-started his memory. He'd been here before, alone and moaning the strangest, most perfect word in the whole damn…

"Myka." His voice broke through his dreams and fell from his lips.

His hands came up and filled with the silky curls he'd know anywhere. She moaned in his head, pausing the most agonizingly delicious blowjob he'd ever received to whisper to him.

"Pete," she crooned to him. "Adorable Pete."

She took him deep again, cradling his pulsing cock on her velvety tongue while she experimented with suction. Soft, then none, her tongue swirling around him, then so hard that her cheeks hollowed out and massaged his sides with an intensity that made him groan as if in pain.

"Myka," he named his dream. "Oh, God. Sweet, gorgeous Myka."

She moaned around him, her mouth too full to answer with words. The vibrations eroded some of his sleep. His eyes fluttered. The vibe did not dissipate. He felt saddened as wakefulness chipped at his dream. He didn't want to wake up. He didn't want to leave this impossibly perfect feeling of being adored and pleasured by the one woman he adored and wanted to return the favor to. If he woke up, he'd have to face seeing her next to him, so close yet so horribly unattainable, sleeping in ignorance of his filthy wet dream about her.

She released him momentarily and beckoned him. "Wake up, Pete. Look at me."

He moaned and clenched his eyes shut harder, not wanting to obey. Cupping her head and gently lifting his hips to her mouth, he let her swallow him one last time. She deep-throated him like a sinful angel and Pete gave a growl of frustration as his release gathered at the base of his spine. He had a choice. He could open his eyes and stop this whole thing right now, or he could complete his wet dream and not be able to face his partner in the morning.

He made his decision.

He opened his eyes.

_Holy fucking…_ "Christ!" he sputtered.

Shock drove a shot of adrenaline through him, waking him up even further. His heart spiked. His pupils went wide and inky. His brain was on red alert.

His final certainty was that his throbbing, deliriously happy cock was nestled completely between real life Myka's kissable lips.

Her eyes, wide and delighted, locked to his and grew brighter at seeing him awake. She rewarded him and sucked him so hard that he nearly lost consciousness again. He arched helplessly and screamed with pleasure.

"Baby," he panted mindlessly. "What are you..?…._oh, fuck_!…Myka…sweetie…you need to…Jesus Christ, you need to…stop…please, just…oh, _fuuuuuck_!"

Pete came violently as Myka pulled his release from him against his will. His hands fisted loosely in her hair and he held on for dear life as she sucked the holy hell out of him and left him bone dry. He roared, bucking wildly underneath her, as he jetted hot and heavy into her throat.

She moaned happily around him, relishing how good he tasted, how electrifying it was to watch him come for the first time. Just as she'd suspected, he was wild and loud and wonderfully unrestrained. He was clothed, save for what she'd pushed away from his midnight erection, and his toned body fought savagely against the cloth, flexing and bulging and begging to be naked. She'd make sure of that next time. He wouldn't wear a single stitch.

Pete groaned and shuddered as he came down slowly. Myka stayed with him, sucking him softly, rubbing her tongue along his softening shaft until the last shiver left him and with one final, hard suck, she released him.

Pete groped until he caught her arms and pulled her up his partially-clothed body. Eyes burning, he said nothing, but just took what he'd wanted to take from the moment he'd met this bossy, mouthy, brainy, insanely perfect woman. He took her kiss. Gripping her tightly, he pressed his lips against hers, his errant hands touching her everywhere, slipping under her tank and teasing her sides, as his tongue slid out and traced the line of her mouth.

"Gimme," he ordered softly. Myka smiled and opened her mouth to him, letting him dive in and taste their mixed flavors on her own tongue. He groaned, the taste of himself inside her driving him crazy. "Jesus Christ," he whispered against her. "What have you done to me?"

She broke their kiss and nuzzled him, planting baby kisses along his jaw line. "I'm loving you, Pete. What does it look like?"

He blinked hard, trying to fight off the euphoric effect of her kisses. "Why, Myka? _Why_ are you loving me?"

She lifted her head and cocked her head in confusion at his question. Pete registered no embarrassment in her gaze. No hesitation. No fear that they'd just taken their relationship to a whole new and against-the-manual level. Somewhere deep in the warmth she'd created in his chest, a steady drip of cold fear began to pool.

"Because I love you," she answered frankly. "I love you and I want to make you happy." Her tongue slipped along her lips as she held his gaze, telling him with no words that she was tasting him. His chest made a deep rumbling sound as he watched her lick him off until her lips were shiny and _oh, God she really needs to stop doing that_. "Did I make you happy?" she asked shyly, dipping her eyes with girlish modesty.

Pete wanted to scream in agony. He wanted to leap up and tear the room to pieces. He wanted a drink. He wanted twenty drinks. Anything to drown the realization that crashed into him as Myka batted her lovely eyes at him. Girlish, as wonderful as it looked on her, was _not _his partner.

He gripped her upper arms and shook her slightly. "Yes," he answered tightly. "You did." Oh, dear God, this wasn't fair. What kind of sick, twisted turn of fate had decided to torture him like this? Inhaling shakily, he asked the question that ironically he had no wish to hear answered. "How much do you love me, Myka?"

Her eyes went heartbreakingly bright. "Oh, Pete," she sighed dreamily. "I love you more than anything. I love you so much that I can't think about anything else. You're perfect. You amaze me. You're the reason I was taken out of D.C., I know it." She paused and smiled wide. "I was _supposed_ to find you."

Pete shuddered in misery, his eyes falling shut against the pain. "Oh, baby," he gritted darkly.

Myka missed his tone and shivered with anticipation at his word. "Yes," she whispered. "Call me that again."

Pete looked up at her as she arched into him, happy but unsated, as she misinterpreted his growling voice. She wanted him. Badly. His hands gripped her harder without his permission. She hummed with approval at the possessive feel of his hold. He fought against every cell in his body and pushed his voice out. "Baby," he answered. "Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?"

Head still tipped back in pleasure, she nodded. "Anything," she promised.

His teeth clenched, not wanting the question to escape and ruin everything. They failed. "Did the priest scratch you with a gold arrow?"

Her gaze snapped down to his with the wide, fearful expression of a child with her hand in the cookie jar. She opened her mouth quickly, but he shook her once more. "If you love me, tell me the truth," he cautioned.

Her mouth closed and she looked down his chest with a confessor's guilt. "Yes," she admitted softly. "He did."

_Fuckfuckfuck_ "Fuck!" Pete swore angrily, rolling them roughly to their sides before letting her go and sitting up. "Damn it all to _hell_."

He jumped up, furiously yanking his pants up and his shirt down. His outrageous fantasy of being canvased inch by inch had been a cruel, unreal reality. He scrubbed his hair madly as he stood facing away from her. Trying to think. Trying to...

"Pete," she called quietly from the bed. "Pete, please. It doesn't matter. The arrow. It doesn't mean that I-,"

"Doesn't mean what, Myka? That you're different now? That you would have gone down on me anyway? That you were already madly in love with me, so what's a little arrow mojo going to-?"

"Yes!" she interrupted hotly, the edge in her voice making him turn to face her. She looked childlike and indignant. She'd done no wrong and wouldn't take his pissy reaction. She thumped her fist into the bed angrily. "Exactly. I was already in love with you. The arrow can't make people fall in love, Pete. Remember? Artie said so. I thought when the priest cut me, I wouldn't be affected because I wasn't in love." She gestured between the two of them quickly. "But see? I _do_ love you. And all the stupid crap that made me afraid of it is just..." she shook her head in pleased wonder. "It's just gone. I don't care if you know it. I don't care if you tease me. I don't care if Artie gets mad or if it jeapardizes our work." Her head continued to shake. "None of it matters. You matter. I love you, Pete. So, so much."

Pete bit back another miserable groan. She did have a point, but he didn't trust it enough to believe her. Artie had also said that the arrows had never been studied properly. Who says they don't create love out of thin air? Who's to say Myka wouldn't have fallen ass over teakettle for the first man she saw post-scratch? It had just happened to be him. Nobody special, just the guy shaking her awake.

_Kissing her awake._

Another groan rumbled in his throat and he turned his back to her again. God, what delightful level of hell this was. Here he stood, crazy about his partner with her addictive saliva drying on his lips and cock, and there was fuckall he could do to take it back or take it further. He was stuck. He was screwed. He was so terribly turned on that he didn't move an inch for fear of moving in the wrong direction. Namely bed.

A small hand touched his back tentatively. "Pete?" she ventured.

He shuddered with lust at her touch. She'd swallowed the best orgasm of his life. What else were those little hands and sweet lips capable of? "Yes, Myka."

He heard her breath hitch. Her words were laced with pain. "Are you mad at me?"

"Oh god, baby," he broke and turned back, sitting on the bed and pulling her roughly to him. Without thinking, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and held her tight against the warmth of his chest. Whatever this was, it wasn't her fault. She couldn't have warded off a voodoo attack. Nor could she control how she felt. Pete remembered the judge, his bloody wrists and enraged demands.

He needed to stay calm. He needed to keep her calm as well. He held her like he wanted to, knowing that at least for now, it was what she wanted too.

"No," he answered softly, rocking them and nosing against her ear. God, he loved her ears. So cute and soft and kissable. He did so, gently pulling her lobe between his teeth. "I'm not mad at you, Myka. Not ever." He paused and took a deep breath. He needed to be honest with her. Not only would it serve to keep her happy and compliant, but it was the truth. His old Myka would never have admitted her feelings to him. Not like this. When they finally fixed her, her humiliation would know no bounds. She'd never forgive herself. She might not ever forgive him either for taking advantage of her weakened state. But no matter what, when they fixed her, she'd have his truth to combat her own sense of exposure. It was only fair.

"I'm crazy about you, baby. You drive me insane, in all the right ways. I adore you. Every inch of you. Okay?"

A contented purr rumbled softly in her throat as she stroked his back and held him. "Good," she sighed softly. Her fingers wandered to his front and danced shyly over his chest and stomach. "Can I make love to you now? I need you, Pete. So bad."

He moaned hotly and bit her ear gently before pulling away. "Later," he lied and ripped his own heart a little. "Right now, I need you to go get ready, then come back here." He pulled her to her feet and steered her towards the door. "We need to figure out where we go from here."


	10. Chapter 10

Myka nearly floated back to her room to shower and dress. She didn't even notice the oppressive heat that engulfed her the minute she stepped into her room, and instead began humming to herself as she stripped out of her sleep wear and slipped into the shower. As she filled her hands with shower gel began to work a lather into her skin, her body buzzed with frustrated pleasure. She closed her eyes and imagined she was in the shower three doors down. She imagined her hands were someone else's. She turned slightly into the tiled wall and imagined those hands doing the turning, gripping her hips and whispering in her ear. She could still feel his nip on her lobe and she moaned with desire.

His body, slick and hard and hungry, pressing intently against her. Probing. Seeking. Taking.

She wondered if Pete would whisper to her as he took her from behind, hot water pelting them and adding a background pitch to their groans.

She wanted him to. She wanted the penetration of his voice as much as she wanted the penetration of his body.

With no fear or insecurities, Myka brought herself to climax in seconds, Pete's name on her lips. And she didn't blush once. Instead, she finished rinsing off and got out, eager to get dressed and get back to him.

As she shimmied into her clothes and starting applying her makeup, she couldn't stop thinking about how she'd woken up. As her mascara brush slipped through her lashes, she remembered feeling Pete before she saw him.

Her eyes still closed, she awakened in his arms again, spooned, just like before. She remembered how odd it was that, unlike the night before, she felt none of her trademark discomfort at the situation. Au contraire. She was exactly where she wanted to be. Wiggling slightly against him, she felt him squeeze her tighter and mutter sleepily.

Scratch that, actually. There was somewhere slightly different that she wanted to be.

She turned in his arms and faced him.

How could she ever, _ever_ have denied her feelings for this man?

Sound asleep, Pete was a study in handsomeness. Without his sparkling, boyish grin, Myka felt herself respond purely to the _man_ holding her. He was muscular. He was dark. His scent was rich, heavy with earthy tones of oak and ash. He was wonderfully warm, but not hot. Another inappropriate, titillating fact for her to file away; Pete gave off the perfect amount of body heat. Transfixed by him, she ran a single finger gently down his forehead, between his eyes, along the bridge of his nose, coming to rest on his lips.

She thrilled when Pete, unconsciously aware of the caress, smiled softly and firmed his lips under her finger.

Another reason she loved him. Pete liked being touched.

He was always tolerant of her punches. He always initiated friendly hugs and high fives. He often brushed her hand without realizing, even though it shocked her neglected nerves like few things ever had.

Deep in his arms and tracing his face, she saw that his effortless, tactile ways transferred to the bedroom.

And suddenly she was filled with the impatient desire to find out just how _much_ he liked being touched. And where he liked it. And how. And how often.

Pushing him carefully onto his back, Myka gently lifted his t-shirt away from his stomach. The soft ridges of his abdominal muscles rippled slightly as he resettled onto the mattress.

She gasped softly. Oh, yes. For all his childlike ways, Pete was definitely an impressively built man. Without thinking, she lowered her head and kissed the hard lines along his belly. She traced them with her tongue, stifling her moans. He tasted wonderful. For all of his junk food, Pete tasted healthy and happy. Myka flattened her tongue and ran it south until she hit his bellybutton.

She loved it, as well. It was so…_cute_.

She lapped at it playfully, smiling when his muscles quivered slightly at the tickle.

All of it only served to heighten her need.

She tugged earnestly at his track pants until she managed to partially uncover him. To her delight, he was already waiting for her. Hot and pulsing, Pete's penis was a sight to behold. No wonder he was so sure of himself. The thick, smooth shaft in front of her was one of the prettiest specimens in circulation. Myka found herself growling with jealous anger as she thought of the other women who'd fainted with pleasure at seeing him for the first time. Or riding him for the first time. They must have thought they'd died on gone to Heaven. A porno cock on a sweetheart of a man.

It was the combination of a trashy romance hero.

My _sweetheart_, Myka thought angrily. My _hero_.

And he was. From now on, Pete was hers. She was the last woman he was ever going to astonish with this view. She was going to be the only woman he thought of when he got this hard. They were bound. They were soulmates.

Time to show him so.

She pressed every ounce of ache and want she had into his powerfully-built thighs. Holding his hips on her hands, she trailed hot, wet kisses down their inner sides, pausing to blow hot air teasingly across his testicles. They went tight with pleasure and Pete moaned in his sleep.

The sound made her core clamp down slickly and dragged a twin moan from her own lips.

Finally understanding Ackerman's lust and Pete's alcoholism for the first time, Myka ravenously took without asking.

She took Pete fully, swallowing his cock with a greed she'd never known and sucking him fervently.

_Oh God, save me_, she thought desperately, licking up his length before sucking his tip like a lollipop. _Save me from how good he is. How delicious he is. Save me from tying him down and blowing him for the rest of my life_.

She increased her suction and her speed.

Suddenly Pete's hands lifted from his sides and buried themselves in her hair.

"Myka," he groaned.

Her gaze snapped to his face. He was still asleep, dreaming about her as she pleasured him. Her heart pounded in her chest and she moaned around his length in ecstasy. Even asleep, Pete wanted her.

She worked him in her hands as she called to him. "Pete," she sighed happily. "Adorable Pete."

Then she went crazy on him. Licking, sucking, pumping savagely, she fucked him with her mouth with blinding eagerness as he held her head and gritted harshly.

"Myka." Fuck, his voice was so sexy. "Oh, God. Sweet, gorgeous Myka."

She couldn't take it anymore. Her own body throbbed with a raging need as she brought his quickly towards release. She needed him awake. She needed his eyes when he came.

"Wake up, Pete," she begged. "Look at me."

He seemed to fight her request, scrunching his face and holding her tighter, but in the end, he obeyed.

The sight of his dream girl filled his reality, his cock embedded deep in her mouth.

"Christ!" he barked, his hips surging forward instinctively.

She cried out around him at his shock. The sight of his startled, dark eyes and the fact that his body was begging for more drove her mad. She redoubled her efforts to suck him blind.

"Baby," he panted above her. "What are you..?…._oh, fuck_!…Myka…sweetie…you need to…Jesus Christ, you need to…stop…please, just…oh, _fuuuuuck_!"

He let go. Myka sobbed as she felt her lover come hard and wet in her mouth. She kept her eyes upward, watching his face contort with ecstasy, listening to the deep scream that tore from his throat, feeling his impressive body flail under her ministrations.

She made a promise to herself. From that day on, she was going to wake Pete up with an orgasm. Seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. The delivery would vary as she experimented, but the result never would.

Pete would scream for her at least once every day before breakfast. It was non-negotiable.

She continued to work him as he calmed down. She knew she should stop before he overstimulated, but she couldn't seem to let him go.

The choice was taken from her when Pete reached down and dragged her up to him. There was nothing boyish or silly about him as his eyes burned with an almost angry desire. He gripped her almost painfully and kissed her like he owned her. His hands moved boldly over her back as his tongue nudged at her lips.

"Gimme," he rumbled.

Myka went even wetter at the sound and happily gave him what he wanted. She opened to his kiss and surrendered to him.

And he took.

His tongue frisked hers firmly, seeking out their combined taste and moaning hotly when he found it. They tangled together, Pete's teasing Myka's back into his mouth, wanting her to explore him just as much. She followed and plundered, stunned at how he managed to taste delicious first thing in the morning. She stroked his arms as he held her, persuading him to touch her more. Much much more.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed against her lips. "What have you done to me?"

She moved her kiss to his throat and he obediently bared it to her, letting her do whatever she wanted. She nearly shrieked at his post-coital submission.

Pete. Liked. Being. Touched.

She buried herself in the pulse that beat in time with hers and answered him. "I'm loving you, Pete. What does it look like?"

She could feel his confusion cat-fighting with his desire. "Why, Myka? _Why_ are you loving me?"

She didn't really understand why he was questioning something they both clearly wanted, but she answered him as best she could. When he tensed beneath her, she knew he didn't like what he heard. She looked for confirmation.

"Did I make you happy?" she asked, suddenly feeling shy.

The angry, possessive look in his eyes intensified and she shivered with longing. She ache between her legs was getting unbearable. She needed Pete soon. Especially when he answered. "Yes. You did."

Thank God.

"How much do you love me, Myka?"

With all of her barriers magicked out of the way, Myka answered honestly. Had Pete asked her a week ago, those barriers would have shot straight up. As would her fists.

But now? Myka knew with sage-like certainty that barriers wasted time and fists deflected truth.

No longer scared of the truth, she gave it to him. Naked and unprotected.

"I love you more than anything. I love you so much that I can't think about anything else. You're perfect. You amaze me. You're the reason I was taken out of D.C., I know it. I was _supposed_ to find you."

Her answer seemed to set something off inside Pete. It seemed at odds with his lust, which was beginning to grow again against her hip. He called her _baby_.

Myka loved the sound and asked to hear it again, straining into his hardening erection, delighted that he could recover so quickly.

Pete obliged her, but only to preface his question about the gold arrow.

Myka had hated to do so, but she admitted it. She'd been cut.

Coming back to the present, Myka shivered and realized she'd been staring at her reflection for nearly ten minutes. Her makeup was done, she'd simply been lost in thought.

Pete was obviously struggling with this. He'd admitted his feelings, but clearly didn't like the idea of the arrow being responsible.

Picking up her things, Myka pursed her lips in thought. If only she could make him understand. The arrow really hadn't created anything. Hell, it hadn't even magnified anything. It had simply removed her doubts.

She had had so many. They had been like a rainforest canopy; massive, stifling her true feelings, blocking out any light that might encourage them. Now all gone. Deforested. And her love for Pete had been waiting underneath, too strong to wilt under the punishing conditions.

And Pete loved her back. He needed her back. It was so simple and cyclic that she didn't even question it. Once he was more comfortable with the idea, everything would be fine. They would be together. For the rest of their lives.

Myka, light as air, almost skipped back to Pete's room.


	11. Chapter 11

Pete couldn't stop pacing. He had taken his shower at a run and his clothes had been thrown over his still-dripping body. No time for towels. Towels created a window of time for a stunning brunette to traipse back into his room, rip said towel away, and continue her arrowed-up aspiration to fuck him to death. The moment she'd left him, he'd gotten ready at the speed of light, terrified that she'd double back and catch him naked.

_Okay_, he amended mentally. _Terrified of what she could talk him into _doing_ if she caught him naked. All of the lovely, thrilling, nasty, savage, sweet things they could do... _

Pete shook it off. Now was the time to think.

His immediate urge was to call Artie. Call the consummate Man With A Plan and ask what do you do with a suped-up sex kitten early in the morning? Artie would know what to do. Pete could almost hear him. "Pete? You gotta make sure she isn't a threat anyone, including you. Tie her up. Lock her down. FedEx her back to me and I'll magic up some blah blah and find an ancient thingamajig and do an Apache raindance while mainlining Tibetan herbal tea straight into her bloodstream. That'll fix what ails her."

Or something.

Pete's finger had hovered over the Farnsworth, all ready to call him, before he flipped the case shut. Slowly, he put the device back on the table.

No, he decided. That wasn't a good idea.

Artie would ask questions. Artie would want to know what had led to Myka's confession about her arrow encounter. He'd want details. He'd want concise, explicit, intensely private details.

Pete closed his eyes and palmed his neck in frustration. The memory of waking up to her moans suddenly filled his ears. The sight of her swallowing him whole, so shocking and unexpected, had been the sexiest thing a woman had ever given him. Even now, his body rumbled dangerously. He'd had a tenuous hold on his desire before this morning, but now that the object of his fantasies was a warm, willing instigator, it had officially snapped its leash.

His mind made the pitiful argument that she wasn't herself.

His instincts pointed out that she'd sucked him exquisitely and begged for more.

He cursed loudly, tired of getting sidetracked. The point was that Pete couldn't stand the idea of Myka's transgressions becoming public knowledge. It was bad enough that he himself knew. She'd kill him dead a hundred times before she made her peace with that. But Artie? Her boss and stand-in father figure? Myka would feel compromised forever. She'd feel like she'd let her superior down for letting a suspect infect her. She'd walked in knowing what she was dealing with, but had still lost. Couple that with her sense of personal failure. Artie, her friend and advisor, would know that she'd jumped yet another partner. Another shag on company time. Another man she couldn't control herself around.

Pete grunted in distaste. He knew these thoughts were garbage, but he also knew Myka. She held herself to a high standard. Impossibly high, he'd argue. But she couldn't help it, it was just who she was.

And Myka Bering would be the first to tell him not to inform Artie about this. She'd beg him. She'd plead without shame. Her reputation was everything. Figure out another way.

Pete flipped open his cell phone and called the local PD.

"Please tell me you've found two quivers of arrows in that dump," he barked at the sheriff who answered.

"We're still looking," the man replied dryly. "It's a helluva mess down here. We could do with some help, to be honest."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll be down in an hour. And remember what I said if you find them in the meantime. No touchy."

"Yessir," the man's deference to a Secret Service agent was notably strained. "We'll be sure not to touch your arrows. I'm sure they pose a serious threat to national security, so we'll stay out of your way and let you chopper them to Gitmo."

Pete politely saved his "Fuck off" until he'd hung up.

Annoyed and frustrated, he turned and faced his bed. Just like the day before, it looked rumpled and sexed-up, the sheets bunched up and messy where they'd lain together. Unlike before, it actually _was_ sexed-up.

Pete attacked the damn thing, yanking the sheets flat, obliterating the scene of the crime. The crime of imaginary passion for Myka. The crime of asshole weakness and taking advantage for himself. Old Myka would be horrified. No doubt she'd burn this bed if she could. And Pete felt the same. He'd let his partner act on manufactured love for him. It was so cheap and hurtful to Myka that he felt sick. He pulled the bedding so tight over the mattress that he heard a seam or two rip slightly.

He was smacking the pillows back into shape when she knocked on his door. Steeling himself, he walked over and opened it.

He half-expected her to leap onto him and try to take him right there against the door. If Ackerman was any indicator to go by, her lust should be downright uncontrolable. Instead, she looked up at him and smiled serenely, stepping forward into his space and hugging him in the miniscule entryway of his room. Her arms were soft and undemanding as they wrapped around his back and her hands rubbed between his shoulders. She nuzzled along the collar of his t-shirt, feeling the texture with her face and breathing deeply.

Her lust was gently in check. Her love, however, encircled him. Claimed him. Filled him with the delightful sensation of being owned.

Pete died a little just then. Myka had never been a hugger before. She had always accepted them with a pleased shyness, or reach for him just as he reached for her, but she had never just walked up to him and put her arms around him.

And that was a damn sin.

Myka's hug was the softest, most perfect place in the whole world. All of Pete's self-loathing and vows not to touch her vanished as he slid his arms around her and pulled her close. Far from their buddy hugs, this hug hummed with the unhurried, physical interest between a man and a woman. They stroked each other through their shirts, taking pleasure in the stark difference of their dimensions. Muscular versus athletic. Broad versus slender. Planes versus curves.

Pete growled happily and cupped her head against his shoulder. Every emotion except smug contentment left him as the woman who didn't "do" hugs embraced him like human sunshine.

"How are you feeling?" he murmured into her hair, reaching behind her to bat the door closed as she eased him further into the room.

"Awesome," she murmured back, startling a chuckle from her partner.

"What?" she asked, not looking up from his shoulder.

"You," he answered smilingly. "You're so damn cute."

She raised her head to see if he was teasing her. Her super-charged heart was gratified to see that he was sincere. She smiled back and leaned up, pressing her lips into his and swallowing his surprised gasp as her mouth made love to him. His hands slid up to her shoulders and he unwillingly pushed her back from him.

"No," he whispered softly, his forehead brushing against hers as his head shook back and forth.

Her brow crinkled. "Why not?"

His expression was tight and his arms, for all of his commands, wouldn't let her go. "Because it's not right."

Her confusion deepened. "But you kissed me this morning. You pulled me up to you and kissed me right after I-,"

"I know," he interrupted, not wanting to hear his blowjob described to him in her sexy voice. "That was different, My. I didn't know you'd been infected, or whatever. I thought it was just you."

She huffed in frustration. She clearly thought this point had already been clarified. "It _was_ me, Pete. All me. I already told you, the arrow doesn't matter."

"I know you did," he soothed, letting his hands rub her back as he spoke. He didn't want to upset her. At least, that's what he told himself, and it was a damn good reason to keep touching her. "I just need some time. You and I are still working this case and I need to keep my head straight. M'kay?"

The mention of work and his honest confusion seemed to mollify her. She nodded, stepping closer into his hug once again and nuzzling his throat, knowing he'd at least allow that much. "So what's the plan?" she mumbled against him. She couldn't stop herself from nibbling along the tendons under her lips as she waited for a response.

"I need to...Jeee-sus, My. I need to...go...back to Kusamba's house. I...god, that feels good...promised the sheriff I'd be there in an hour."

Myka froze against him. He felt her go rigid in his arms. In a panic, he buried his thoughts, scared that telepathy might have been a giveaway with her new loveydoveyness.

She pulled back and eyed him carefully. He fought to keep his expression lax and innocent. He did _not_ want to see arrowed Myka angry.

"You're going back? To look for the arrows?" she asked slowly, eyes boring.

He nodded slightly. "Yep."

Her head cocked to one side as she regarded him. "And if you find them?"

Keeping his sorely underused poker face in place, he shrugged. "I'll do what we came here to do. I'll fix the judge and the few other people that the priest mojo'd."

She swallowed, hurt welling up in her eyes. "Including me?"

Pete sighed and cupped her face in his big hands, keeping his eyes square on hers. "I don't know what to say, My. You say you're fine. But the others? Think about them. The judge is killing himself in that jail. And the other victims are no better off. They're suffering, baby. They didn't ask for any of this. So I'm going to find those arrows and sort them out because they deserve to have their lives back."

Her large, liquid eyes moved between sympathy for them and distrust for him. Pete had a terrible feeling that he was going to have to lead arrow Myka against her will. She obviously didn't want to be. And while the idea of her being madly in love with him for eternity sounded dynamite, there was no way in hell it was going to happen like this. He didn't want to wake up to her every morning, wondering if she actually loved him or if she'd been permanently Mickey Finned by a pointy stick. No dice. Myka was getting lead. Whether she wanted it or not.

She continued to watch him unblinkingly from the cup of his palms. Pete, needing her trust, leaned down and kissed her softly. She responded instantly and Pete groaned as her fearless adoration rose up to meet him. She opened completely to him. Her lips parted, encouraging him to dip in and taste. Her arms went around his neck, stroking and petting, as her breasts pressed firmly into his chest. She sighed into his mouth and he nearly lost it as he once again took without thinking.

They kissed like horny teenagers for several minutes before Pete broke it. Panting and holding her face against his, he delivered what he hoped made her believe him.

"Imagine if I'd responded like Katie, My." He whispered against her lips. He took a deep breath and pushed his luck. "Imagine if I didn't want you back."

The effect was immediate. Myka's eyes, such a lovely, complicated color, went dangerously cloudy. Her nails sank warningly into his nape. Her expression went icy. Her body went taut. She glared at him for several seconds. At length, she answered him.

"But you _do _want me."

The room suddenly felt airless. Pete was knocked senseless by the furious possession radiating hotly from his partner. He proceeded carefully, continuing to brush his lips along hers.

"Yes, Myka. I want you."

"You're not like Katie." It was a statement. Yet, Pete felt like he'd been ordered.

"No," he agreed. He rubbed along her back again, wanting to banish the storm that he'd provoked inside her. "I'm not. But Katie doesn't love Ackerman. He'll be miserable for the rest of his life," he paused over his point. "I need to fix him. I need to save him from that pain."

He felt her grip loosen on him slightly. He didn't have time to examine the thrill coursing through him at the power of her loving fury. Right now, he needed to get her to listen to him. He continued quickly. "I want you to stay here and locate each arrow infection for me. I think there were three others. Find them. I'm going to find those quivers, bring them back here, and then we'll hit those houses. Sound good?"

Myka nodded slowly, her eyes flickering to the computer on the table. "And if you can't find the arrows?" Her question felt loaded.

Pete, being Pete, chose teasing. He pulled her flush against him and cupped her ass, eyebrows wiggling. "Then I guess Ackerman is S.O.L."

Myka grinned and gave a playful yelp, rubbing her nose against his as he laughed at her enthusiasm. He opened his arms and stepped back, sweeping his arm towards the computer with a gentleman's charm. "Well? Care to rustle me up some twitterpated townies?"

She sidestepped him, smiling wide. "Sure."

She settled into her seat as Pete headed for the door. "Happy hunting," he offered, giving her a warm smile before heading out the door.

Myka watched him leave before turning back to her computer. She did not return his words.


	12. Chapter 12

The rip in Pete's heart grew with each step he took towards the car. Yeah sure, he had a job to do. But right now the job was looking awfully pale compared his other considerations. Namely, he didn't want to leave her. Not for a single second. He felt like running back to his room, throwing the door open and curling himself around the glory that was Myka crazy in love with him. He wanted her to say it over and over. He wanted her to smile and hide her face in his chest as he teased her about it.

"So you _do _looooooove me!" he'd singsong at her.

Still hiding, she'd nod against him, accepting his jokes as the price of falling for a natural born tease. Then he'd really push it and ask what she'd do if he ran off with the hotel chambermaid, just to experience the blasting heat of her jealousy. Pete was not above making a woman jealous, especially when he was kidding and especially when the woman gripped him ferociously and threatened to cut his balls off if he even _considered _being unfaithful. Far from finding such threats scary, Pete adored knowing she cared enough about him to slice him to pieces if he hurt her.

And he'd never cheated on a woman. Maybe that was why he enjoyed risking her wrath, just to feel her arms tighten around him and watch her eyes churn tempestuously.

A jealous Myka was a beautiful Myka. Then again, a Myka that was tossed onto a bed and convinced just how hot he found monogamy with her? She might be the prettiest Myka of them all. His heart was desperate for him to turn around and go find out.

But he made his feet march forward. The only Myka he was going to see when he came back was the lead arrowed, shocked, unhappy, restored old Myka. He wasn't coming back until he found the artifact necessary to make that happen. He didn't care if she offered a thousand of her soft little hugs. He wouldn't be any kind of friend or partner if he didn't jolt her out of this waking sex dream and let her make her own, non-magicked choice about them as a romantic couple. Most likely, she'd say no. All the more reason to innoculate her as soon as possible. Myka had worked too hard to become the woman she was. A sweet little conoodler was _not_ that woman.

Pete jumped in their rental and drove to the priest's house.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Pete kept his swears to himself as he lent a hand with the search. Pulling up to the house, he would have sworn that they hadn't so much as straightened a single bottle. But the team adamantly claimed they'd been slaving for hours, picking through trash and creepy voodoo stuff in hopes of uncovering his stupid Crackerjack prize. The arrows, to be precise. Each of the local cops -local though they might be- felt indignant at the seemingly asinine use of their time. Pete pacified them as best he could and worked alongside them with a diligence that he hoped they mimicked. He needed those arrows. Now more than ever.

"God Almighty," one of the cops moaned next to him as they stopped to catch their breath. "How much more shit can there be in this house?"

Pete backhanded the sweat from his brow and shook his head. "No clue. I'd say we've only gone through two rooms worth, though."

The cop swore rather creatively and fell back into a sitting position on one of the boxes. He kicked savagely at an ancient, rusty coffee tin on the floor and sent it flying across the room. It hit the opposite wall and grey soot exploded out of it. Pete, wearing his purple gloves, waved his hand in front of his face to keep the soot away from him. The cop eyed his hands as he did. "So what's the deal with those?" he gestured to them.

Pete shrugged. "Just evidence gloves," he dodged easily.

The suspicion didn't lessen in his search buddy. "Purple?"

He shrugged again. "It's the new white."

The heat in the house was too stifling for the cop to chuckle. Instead, he leaned back into the box and rested his head against the wall, more than ready to take a nap and give up on the pointless search for some stupid old arrows. He turned his head to the side and blinked.

"Hey," he said.

Pete, still swiping at his hairline to keep the sweat at bay, turned. "What?"

The cop was leaning back on a box and looking behind one of the bookshelves along the wall. "There's something back there."

There was too much junk in the way for Pete to get close. "Something like what?" he asked from his small island of clean floor amongst the newspapers and debris.

The cop pushed his face into the crack between the case and the wall. "I dunno. Hold on." The crack was just wide enough for him to slip his hand and upper arm through. When he pulled back clutching something in his grip, Pete blew out a grateful sigh. A quiver. A tiny quiver. Feathers up.

"Thank fuck," he mumbled softly. "Hand it here."

The cop did so and Pete took it carefully in his gloved hands. Gently, he extracted a single shaft and brought the tip up to his eye. It glinted brightly for him. The promise of mad love. Pete instinctively pulled back. "Gold," he murmured to himself, looking back to the cop. "Is the other one back there too?"

"Looks like," the cop's voice was muffled from the crack as he reached into it again. "I can't quite see, but..._there_ we go."

He grinned as he stood up with the second, identical quiver. Feathers up, just like the first. The cop handed it over.

"Please tell me that we can get out of here now," the cop begged him as Pete pulled a shaft out from the second quiver and examined the tip. The far plainer, meaner metal did not glint for him. Instead, it seemed to glower. The promise of seething hatred. Pete once again retreated and sheathed the angry bugger back with his friends.

"Dude, we're good." Pete smiled at the guy as he placed the quivers into the case he'd brought from the car. It was all he had for transport since their purple goo didn't work on paired artifacts. He and Myka would just have to transport them as is and hoped they behaved. He let out a relieved sigh. "Go on, get outta here. You guys did awesome."

The cop smiled in relief. "But don't worry, Pete. We still got guys combing the area for him. If he's within three counties of this house, we'll find him."

Pete smiled at his optimism. He waved his hand dismissively. "Go on, get outta here."

The other man hurried down the stairs, calling out to the others that they'd found what they were looking for. Pete heard several whoops and hollers in reply. By the time he'd carefully locked the case and made his way down the stairs, the other men were gathering by their trucks, chatting and taking suggestions about which bar to celebrate in once they got back to town. Pete was putting the case into the back of the SUV when a voice called out.

"You comin' with us?"

He turned and saw from their faces that the offer was genuine. Pete was touched. The men who, as of two minutes ago, had hated his guts, they still wanted to hang out with him now that business was concluded. Needing to get back to Myka, but not wanting to seem like he was too good for his company, Pete smiled warmly and pulled out his AA chip celebrating seven years sober. He flashed the chip at the men. Several faces softened with understanding. Several faces squinted in confusion.

"My drinkin' days are over," he offered jokingly. "Have one in my honor."

The older men, having seen their share of sobriety chips, saluted him with two fingers. A friendly gesture and a farewell. The younger mens' eyes widened at the chip and its implications, nodding gravely at his request. Never lead another man unto temptation. They quickly turned back and one by one, loaded up and took off down the road. Pete lagged behind on purpose. As he climbed up into the driver's seat, he let himself slip into thought.

He did not relish what was coming. As glad as he was to find the arrows, their recovery brought unpleasant eventualities. Namely, he had to go back and fix Myka. She didn't want it. He knew that much. He was probably in for one helluva fight, unless he sprung it on her. But this had to happen. Because life without old Myka was a life he wanted no part of. Even if she never forgave him for being weak when it came to her. If possibly losing her friendship was the price he had to pay for that weakness, then he'd pay it. Just like that.

In response, he immediately imagined a life where Myka never spoke to him outside of their work relationship. He imagined their magical castle out in the Badlands in the middle of nowhere, and only having Artie and Claudia for company. He imagined her eyes, her bewitching eyes, always looking away from him, never wanting to see the face of the man who took something so sacred from her. The bouncing, yipping puppydog that lived in Pete's soul vanished at these thoughts, replaced by a lonely old wolf. He was suddenly miserable, just wanting to howl at the moon, calling for his mate. Pete, such a happy and social creature, would be condemned to wander the wilderness, cold and alone.

He jammed the key into the ignition and gunned the engine to life. Angrily throwing the car into drive, Pete pitched it forward, suddenly impatient to do the deed. He had absolutely no right to sit around feeling sorry for himself. Myka had every right to be furious with him. Just like he had every obligation to set things right and take his punishement.

The car skidded and jumped along the uneven road, making it's reluctant way back to the hotel.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The room was dim when he entered it.

Pete, caseless and holding only one small item, flipped the light switch. Light spilled into the curtained room and illuminated his partner, all curled up in the fetal in one of his seats, her head propped against her knees. She was fast asleep in front of her computer. Pete's heart made another desperate plea, begging him to just keep her. Keep her forever, just so he could come home to the heartwarming sight of her asleep in his room before he gathered her up and took her to bed. Even on the job. Even in hotels. Even at three o'clock in the afternoon. He wanted that. He wanted her. Pure and simple.

Her eyes flickered and she lifted her head from her knees. "Hey," she greeted sleepily, checking the clock on the computer. "Damn. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Pete grinned and sat down on the bed. "Did you find our peeps?"

She unfolded herself, stretching and yawning as she nodded. "Yeah. Four in total. They were easy to locate. We shouldn't have any trouble finding them."

Her happy smile froze and melted into a frown the moment she looked down at his hands. A tiny lead arrow met her gaze, the tip conspicuously pointed away from Pete. She looked back up at him. Her fear was evident.

"I have to use the bathroom," she said suddenly, jumping across the small space and slamming the door once inside. Pete sighed wearily. This was where the fight was about to begin.

"My," he called out sternly. "My, come on. You know I have to do this."

"No!" she shouted behind the door. "I don't want it. Get rid of it, Pete."

"You know I can't." He walked over to the door separating them, leaning his forehead into the wood. "My, please. You can't stay in there forever. We need to fix you."

"I don't need fixing," she argued hotly. "Pete, I don't want all those fears and stupid anxieties coming back to me. I love feeling this way. I love that I can tell you how I feel and not be afraid. And you love it too. Remember?"

"Play fair," Pete groaned. God, he really, _really_ didn't need to be reminded of how much he loved it. "This isn't you, Myka. The old you would never want this. That's all the proof I need to insist that you do what I say."

"No!" she repeated angrily. "I'm lucid and I'm fine and I'm telling you _not _to touch me with that thing."

"You don't know what you are," he said as he pounded the door in frustration. "No one, not even Artie, knows what's happened to you. And I'm not about to risk my partner's health just because she's diggin' the high. Now I mean it. Get out here and let me take care of you."

"NO!"

Pete took another deep breath. He had no choice now. He was going to have to stop pulling his punches. His chest tightened horribly as he prepared to do what was needed to get her out of there.

His hand fisted and smacked _hard _into the wood.

"_Fine_," he spat in desperation. "I need to turn you back because I don't love you, Myka. I don't and I never have. You're all clingy and needy and total mush and I'm already sick of it. And I don't need this bullshit right now. Get your ass out here and give me my old partner back or I'll bust down this door and take her myself."

Total. Utter. Silence.

Pete waited.

A voice, tiny, made it's way through the door. "What?"

Pete braced himself. "Hey, don't get me wrong. Thanks for the blow and all, but playtime's over." It actually hurt his throat to turn the words loose, but he continued. "I like it simple. And screwing your partner, while fun, isn't simple." He paused. "Like you don't already know."

His teeth succeeded in biting his lips between them, forcing him to shut up. His pressed himself hard into the door, willing her to come out. Suddenly the wood disappeared under his head as she opened it slowly. Standing on the other side, Pete expected a firestorm to greet him. What he saw was a brokenhearted little girl's expression, her eyes thick with tears. Her hands were clasped behind her back, making her look small. She gazed up at him in horrified disbelief.

"Pete?" His own name, begging him to stop.

She stood perfectly still, eyes blinking as his words settled between them. Pete held his ground. He'd aplogize to old Myka the minute he brought her back. He held the lead arrow out in front of him. "Give me your arm, My. It won't hurt. I promise."

She didn't budge. Instead, tears fell to her cheeks. With a heartbroken little sigh, she asked him through trembling lips. "You don't love me?"

"I don't," he lied. "And I never said I did." That was true enough. He'd never actually said the words.

Her face crumpled and she lowered her chin to her chest, sniffling softly. Without a word, she raised one hand from behind her back, offering it to him.

Pete exhaled loudly, nodding at her surrender. He took her hand gently and flipped her wrist up, holding the lead tip a few inches away, trying to figure out where to prick her that would easily draw blood but not hurt.

He never got the chance to locate one.

Myka, in a blur of motion, flipped his hold into one of her own, gripped his hand tightly, and brought her other hand out from behind her back. Pete barely saw the broken shaft as it arced down, the glinting tip slicing cleanly into his forearm. Blood filled the cut, pooling slightly before running over.

Stunned, Pete looked up from the wound into the eyes of a deadly serious woman.

"Let's find out, shall we?" she asked through her tears.


	13. Chapter 13

They stood facing each other, holding their arrows aloft, Myka with her gold and Pete with lead.

Pete couldn't stop staring between her and his sliced arm, appalled by his injury. Myka had cut him. Fuck, this wasn't good. He wasn't sure if it was the shock or the arrow, but suddenly the room pitched and Pete stumbled. He grabbed the wall for balance and gasped as a warm sensation poured into his blood. He watched with disbelieving eyes as his wound filled with a shining, yellow light. It flashed like lightning, then was gone. The light. The blood. The cut. All gone. Pete stared at his fully healed skin, flexing the muscles, amazed at the transformation. He looked at Myka and found her regarding him hopefully.

She was waiting. Waiting for him to turn.

Watching him watch her, she smiled softly at his astonishment. "Silly rabbit. You didn't even bother counting the arrows to make sure they were all there, did you?"

Pete was Pete. Of course he hadn't counted them.

The realization of what was about to happen hit him full on. Panicking, he did the only thing he could think of. Still holding his lead arrow in the other hand, he raised it up to the arm braced against the wall, intent on inoculating himself before the gold tip had a chance to work it wiles on him.

Unfortunately, Myka knew him too well.

"No, you don't." She ripped the arrow from his grasp.

"Goddammit, My," he rasped groggily at her, swiping for it ineffectually. "Gimme that thing."

"No," she retorted angrily, holding it away from his feeble attempts to take it from her.

"That was stupid," he rumbled angrily. The wall wasn't helping. Pete fell to his knees, needing the security of the floor to help his sudden vertigo. Looking up at her, his tone reeked of accusation. "Why did you do that?"

Myka tossed both arrows across the room, knowing he was in no shape to get up and fetch them, and knelt beside him, her eyes still hurt as they sought his. "I haven't done anything," she denied flatly. "You don't love me, remember? I'm clingy and needy and you don't want me. The arrow won't change a thing."

Pete moaned and sagged brokenly to the floor, terrified of what was about to happen to him. The careful walls he'd built around his baser instincts. The chains he'd enslaved his self-indulgences with. The miles of rope he'd knotted around the uncontrollable addict who lived inside him.

What would happen to him once they were free? What would happen to Myka?

Even with his head lowered against the nausea, he felt her watching him. Weighing his response.

Her voice was soft when she asked, "Were you lying?"

His head shot up.

"Of course I was lying!" Pete almost wailed in frustration. "I'm nuts about you, baby. Always have been. But this..." he gestured between them and the arrows, "this isn't right! We shouldn't happen like this!"

Myka shuddered lustfully at his admission. "But we're going to," she promised him. "I want this, Pete. I want all of it."

"Please, My," he begged softly, taking her hands in his. "You need to lead arrow me. Now."

"No."

"Do you have any idea what I'll do to you if I stay like this?" he asked desperately. "I'm an addict, Myka. Do you understand? If this thing affects me like I think it's going to, it means I'll take and take and take until I've killed us both. I'll tie your hands to the bed posts. I'll handcuff your legs around my back. I'll devour every inch of you and nothing else. No food. No water. No sleep. I'll just fuck this perfect body of yours until we're dead from exhaustion."

Myka was growing softer and wetter with each word he spoke. She murmured longingly, moving closer to him and rubbing her hands along his. Pete huffed in frustration, trapping her cheeks in his palms and forcing her to look into his frightened eyes. "You'll never forgive me," he explained pleadingly. "Artie will find us. He'll fix us. And you'll never forgive me."

She shook her head in certainty. "I love you. You can't do anything that I'll never forgive."

Pete shook his head harder. His panic was increasing as he felt the gold arrow's effect slowing taking root. He had fewer intimacy issues that Myka had. The arrow seemed to be working faster on his soft heart than it had on hers. His worries were lessening, which made him worry even harder. He had precious little time. He took her hands again and kissed her inner wrist.

"Then please, My. Let's do this right. Let's use the lead arrow on each other. Then we'll talk about us." He noticed that he lips couldn't leave her hands as he spoke. He started a path of kisses into her palms and over her fingertips. Each kiss was getting slower. Less hurried. Until the last kiss on her pinky was born purely from desire and not fear.

"Please," he murmured, feeling slightly confused. He didn't remember what he was begging for. Not that he minded. Begging Myka seemed appropriate. She had everything he wanted, after all.

"Myka, please baby."

Still kneeling at his side, she tipped his chin up in her hands, bringing his face within an inch of hers. She looked so stunningly beautiful. Pete felt awed as she smiled and whispered.

"Please what, Pete?"

Her lips. Damn, he couldn't stop staring at her lips. So thick and pouty and talented. He growled, remembering how he woke up that morning. Jesus, if that was his new alarm clock, then why the hell wasn't he still in bed enjoying it? Myka watched as his eyes went black with intent. She pushed at him by licking her lips slowly, letting her tongue slide out and tease him cruelly.

"Please. What. Pete?"

Still growling, Pete suddenly sprung forward. Myka shrieked happily and fell backwards onto the floor, Pete looming above her. His face was so intense that when he smiled, his expression went downright predatory.

"I think you know," he answered roughly. Myka returned his smile and nodded. Oh, yes. She knew damn well what Pete wanted now. She arched up and offered it to him. Her jean-clad hips ground against his. Her hands glided up his back in encouragement. Her fingers settled into his hair, pulling gently, asking him to lower himself. And he descended. Myka rose up to meet him as he kissed her hard and hot and oh-so-deeply. She moaned against his lips and opened to him again, sighing as his tongue stroked boldly against hers.

"No," he mumbled against her. "This is…mmmmm…this is not…oh, god, you taste amazing." His objections were getting fuzzier. What had he been saying before?

"Peeete," Myka moaned for him as his lips moved fervently over her cheeks and throat.

Pete ground her into the carpet, his back arching and rippling with pleasure as her fingers wandered under the hem of his shirt and explored him. She stilled when she came to a large, round scar. Her other hand found another one in the same position on the other side of his spine. Breaking their kiss, she held his gaze with loving concern as her hands made their way up, finding two more sets of them, one above the other. Pete watched her expression as he felt her slow discovery, six in all.

"The spine," she said softly. "These are electrocution marks from the spine, aren't they?"

He smiled sweetly at her. "Yep. They sure are."

Stroking them carefully, Myka shook her head in wonder at him. "I think that was the day I fell in love with you," she admitted willingly now. "That was the day you almost died being noble."

He kissed her nose. "Just trying to impress you."

She nuzzled into his face. "Liar."

He chuckled and bared his throat to her, just like he had that morning. Myka hummed with pleasure as she nipped along his jugular.

_My_," he moaned hotly as she nibbled and bit at him.

"Keep talking," she ordered breathlessly. "Say my name like that again."

"My," he repeated. "Mymymymymy," he chanted the possessive abbreviation of her name.

Sam had called her Bunny. The only other pet name she'd ever been given. She'd been happy that Sam had wanted to call her something endearing, so much so that she'd overlooked how much she disliked his choice.

But necking with Pete had brought out a new pet name for her. _My_. Her name, and yet belonging to someone else. _She_ belonged to someone else.

"Sweet Pete," she crooned softly.

He lowered his head again and grinned at her. "It rhymes for a reason."

"Ugh," she uttered, biting him harder. "I hate you _so_ much."

"You _love_ me _so_ much," he retorted, kissing her breathless. "The arrow proves you do."

"You love me back," she whimpered, tilting her chin, wanting even more kisses. "The arrow proves that too."

"I don't need an arrow to know how stupid, sick in love I am with you, Myka."

The weight and warmth of his body was driving her crazy. "Prove it," she dared him. "Show me how stupid, sick in love you are."

"Oh, cupcake," he rumbled darkly at her, making her shiver from head to toe. "You're gonna be so sorry you asked."

He reared up onto his knees and began ripping savagely at her jeans. The button popped easily under his fingers and he was tugging at them impatiently before she knew it.

"Yes!" she hissed, lifting her hips, helping him shimmy them down and off her legs. She yanked her top off, her body arching in front of him as only her underwear hid the last few inches of flesh.

She looked up hungrily at him and eyed his clothes with contempt. "Off," she demanded cutely.

His grin grew more devilish as he stripped out of his t-shirt. The stark musculature of his abs and chest rolled with his movements. Myka keened softly as she felt even more moisture pool in her already soaked panties.

With an insatiable growl, Pete caught them in his fingers and pulled hard. Myka gasped as she was stripped roughly, leaving her bare and spread out before him. She saw something snap in his eyes as he ravenously devoured her with his gaze.

The addict. He was loose.

Pete dove at her, yanking her legs around him as he kissed her savagely. Myka sobbed into his mouth, grinding her pussy into his jeans and gasping as he drove back against her. His erection was pressing directly into her clit and she trembled as sparks shot down her legs from the stimulation.

"Loose the bra or I'll tear if off with my teeth," he warned against her mouth. She smiled wide and obeyed, reaching back and releasing her breasts. He ripped the offending fabric away and cupped them reverently, molding their weight and tweaking their tips. Myka moaned with encouragement. It wasn't just that she was completely head over heels for the man. He knew what he was doing. She flailed under him, naked and crazy for more. She tugged at his fly, wanting to see that beautiful cock again. She planned to spend the next hour sucking him madly before giving into the demands of her throbbing body and taking him hard and fast and screaming.

Pete had other plans.

He skimmed her body, forgoing her lovely breasts and stomach and settling between her thighs. With no preamble, he spread them wide and swiped his tongue across her entrance, groaning loudly.

"No." Myka pulled away slightly. This wasn't what she'd pictured. She wanted to pleasure him, not the other way around. She'd already forgotten her dare to him. All she could think about was hearing him scream again, watching him twist and writhe and she licked and stroked. "No, you don't have to..."

Pete's eyes went furious at her retreat, like she'd taken his more cherished possession away from him. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he hissed and jerked her back to him, his fingers petting along the slick length of her pussy and making her moan.

He leaned forward.

"I haven't had a drink in eight goddamn years, Myka." His eyes burned into hers as his fingers continued to devastate her between her thighs. "And now I am going to get drunk. Open your legs and let me have you, baby." He lowered his head and kissed her breasts. His kisses were soft against his edgy words. "Open to me, My. Let me find out how incredible you taste."

There was no question in his request. If she didn't let him, he'd simply take. She saw it in his eyes. Her heart flew crazily in her chest. Pete was in love with her. Stupid, sick in love with her and now that she'd released him from his fears, he was going to take her exactly as he'd said he would.

Hard. Greedily. Constantly.

"Please," the word shook on her lips.

He shot straight down and drove his tongue inside her eager body.

She cried out at his attack. Bucking wildly, she sobbed with pleasure as Pete held her down with one arm and attacked her clit with his free hand, all the while drinking from her like a man dying of thirst.

She had wanted Pete for so long, both pre- and post-arrow. She came almost instantly, his tongue lapping her up as she gasped his name and filled his mouth with the sweet, clean proof of her desire. Pete didn't let up, sucking her clit and massaging her, prolonging her release. He watched with smug, territorial satisfaction as his pretty little bookworm went wild underneath him.

She was settling down, his name murmured over and over. But Pete couldn't stop. He just couldn't. He told himself to stop, thinking she'd become desensitized to his ministrations, but it wasn't working. He thought he'd stop once he'd licked her clean, but it was proving impossible. Myka was too wonderfully wet. Licking her only produced more, which drove him absolutely wild and made him lick harder.

She was soaking. And it was for him.

Pete purred as his beautiful partner moaned incoherently. There was no way in hell he was going to stop. After one taste, he'd become thoroughly addicted.

There were no programs for fighting an addiction to Myka. No meetings. No support groups. There was nowhere for him to go after this. He was hooked. And nothing could save him. He'd stay hooked for the rest of his life, desperately needing her every single hour, just to slake this new addiction that he had no chance in hell against.

Delicious. Soft. Insanely lickable. He feasted on her with manic joy. He didn't even remember the taste of alcohol, nor did he want any ever again. It was a pale, sickly high compared to her. Drinking from her was filling his system up with something completely new. It made him loose his sanity and he growled happily at its loss.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he snarled against her, his tongue striking her clit in rapid successions while she sobbed and trembled under his mouth. "How am I supposed to live the rest of my life when all I want to do is lick you out for the next three decades?"

"Pete," she cried brokenly. "Please, I can't take it. I need you so bad. Please?"

"I know, baby," he soothed, softening his attack by kissing her inner thighs. "I need you, too."

"Please?" she looked down at him, lips trembling.

Pete reared up onto his knees again, never breaking their stare as he opened his jeans and slid them along with his boxers down. He stood to take them off, staring in amazement at the woman at his feet.

"Beautiful," he crooned. The curls and the long legs and the pretty eyes and every single inch in between. "I don't deserve you."

He held his hand out to her. "I'm not making love to you for the first time on the floor."

She took his hand and stood up beside him. Myka was struck with the memory of seeing him in her shower, both of them naked and him kissing her back and pouring honey in her ear. She wrapped her arms around his back, pressing herself into him.

"Will you make love to me on the floor later?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," he promised.

"Will you make love to me in the shower?"

"God, yes."

"Will you make love to me—?"

"Yes," he interrupted, gripping her shoulders and pushing her playfully onto the bed. She giggled and bounced, looking up at him impishly. She scurried to the top of the bed as Pete, hot and hard and bothered, placed his fists and knees on the mattress and stalked towards her.

"I'm going to take you every-damn-where. But right now," he tugged her legs and dragged her under him, his captive screaming in happy submission as he trapped her, "I'm going to take you in the bed that you drove me so crazy in."

He dove into her arms. He never should have worried about tying Myka down or chaining her legs around him. She had no intention of ever stopping this, now that it had begun.

Sprawled and naked against each other, they strained hard into their kiss, their busy hands touching everywhere. Myka stroked Pete's impressive shaft with both hands as he arched and moaned at her flawless technique.

"Oh damn, that's good," he groaned out, bowing tightly.

"Pete," she didn't hear herself as she watched, mesmerized by him. "I want to suck you," she stated, asking permission. Her current position didn't allow it.

He lowered his head to hers and shook it as he kissed her. "Enough play, baby. I want to be inside you." He checked her eyes for an answer. "Will you let me?"

She laughed softly, tightening her hold on him. She smirked when he bucked into her grasp. "I'd be an awful tease if I said no."

His gaze grew softer. He went still as he stroked her hair gently. "Condoms?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

He cocked his head. God, this was torture. "We don't have any? Or you don't want any?"

"Both," she answered simply.

Pete growled as her answer broke most of his precious control. He nudged gently at her entrance. Warm and wet, she took an inch of him before he realized and cursed hotly at the heaven that beckoned him. "Are you sure?" he gritted.

But Myka was loosing herself as well. Her eyes fluttered as the head of his cock massaged her already-sensitive entrance. She nodded frantically. "Yes, I'm sure."

"What about birth control?"

She moaned desperately. "Don't care," she whispered deliriously. "I'll have your baby. I'll have ten of your babies. Just fuck me, Pete." She arched up and took another inch of him. "I need you!"

Pete shouted another angry curse and slid home into her tight depths. "Holy fuck, Myka!"

He lost himself just then. She was perfect. The tightness of her channel squeezed every thought right out of his head. Except her willingness to have his child. And her heat engulfed him. Broke him. Made him delirious with the idea that fucking her senseless was the most beautiful activity in the world. And not only was he going to do it night and day from now on, eventually it would lead to them making a baby.

A magical baby that would live in a magical warehouse, full of spell books and ferrets and people who would love the little one completely.

Desire overwhelmed him. Pete, unable to control himself, drove fast and hard into the woman he loved.

"Pete!" she cried, locking her slim legs behind his back, taking him deeper. She placed frenzied kisses all over his face, all of which he returned.

"Oh, my God," he murmured against her. "You're perfect. Jesus Christ, Myka, you feel so damn perfect."

Myka made that same trilling noise she'd made waking up in Pete's arms and grabbed his ass, grinding into his punishing pace and locking their bodies even tighter against each other.

"I love you," she whispered. "Only you. Just you. Baby, please don't stop."

Pete roared as ecstasy shot through him at her words. "Fuckin' A, just me," he answered her, pulling one of her legs over his shoulder and thrusting hard into the deeper angle. He leaned down and placed his signature, devastating kiss into her ear. "Hear this, lady. You ever let another man touch your gorgeous body again and I promise I'll do something stupid and stabby to him."

Myka cried out in angry pleasure at his claim on her and drove her own hips up against his in response. "Me?" she growled in accusation. "_You're _the flirt. You ever look another bimbo in a short skirt again and I'll kill you myself."

Pete roared in delight, rolling them until she straddled his hips. They didn't break tempo as she bore down onto him, sobbing as she rode him hard and fast.

"Don't tell me what to do," he drove up violently, fucking her from below. "If I never look at another woman again because I'm currently fucking a goddess, it's because I don't want to, not cuz you say."

"Bastard," she moaned with no venom.

"Beautiful baby," he lost his will to fight in the glorious feel of her beginning to come around him. "Please, Myka," he begged ardently. "Say my name as you come."

"Pete," she answered, her release coming so fast that when Pete cupped her breasts and drove up one final time, she broke loud and hard on top of him. "_PEEEEEETE_!"

"FUCK!" he roared as her body clenched him tighter than he'd ever felt inside a woman. "Jesus, Myka, _YES_!"

He shot up all of his desire into the only woman he'd ever truly loved, her name on his lips. He gripped her hips and arched violently into her, coming so deep in her womb that a part of him wondered if she actually would get pregnant before the day was over.

A dark, masculine pride filled him at the thought as he slowly came down. As Myka collapsed onto his chest, panting softly, he saw her in his mind, her body the same everywhere except for her stomach, which was round and tight as a basketball under her clothes. She was holding it protectively in her hands, looking at him with an alluring smile that told him that the baby was his and no one else's.

His chest made a rumbling noise as he pulled her closer. "Beautiful baby," he repeated smugly, kissing her cheek as her face snuggled against his.

"Pete," she whispered breathlessly. Christ, hearing his name in her sexy voice was never, _ever _going to get old.

"You okay?" he asked, brushing her hair aside so he could nibble freely at her ear. This was _his _spot now. He could nibble at it any time he liked.

She hummed at the light, slightly ticklish caress and nodded. "More than okay. That was incredible."

"All you," he said absently, kissing and nipping her lobe.

"Can we do it again?" she asked smilingly.

"Are you kidding?" he whispered into his spot. "I owe you the floor. The shower. Every-damn-where. Remember?"


	14. Chapter 14

The arrows were magic. And the arrows were strong. But the arrows were not capable of anything outside of what it said on the metaphorical label. They created nothing. They altered nothing. They merely rearranged priorities and pushed stuff around until they uncovered emotional paydirt. Love or hate, most people felt one or the other. Or both. Still. The people they infected did not change in terms of fundamentals. Nerds stayed nerds. Jocks stayed jocks. Myka stayed Myka and Pete stayed Pete.

And both were exact opposites as lovers.

Myka was studious. Had been all her life. She was a reader, patiently pouring over texts and complex reading materials in order to learn. Her father was responsible, mostly. Books had been his whole life. Hence, they'd been hers as well. So when she took a man to bed, she tended to read him carefully. She'd pour over his body the same way she'd pour over her books. Usually, her preference in men was similar. Smart men. Circumspect men. Between the sheets, passion was often muted in favor of exploration as they mapped each other, the cerebral winning out over the purely physical. Not to suggest the she wasn't a passionate woman, under the right circumstances, but she certainly followed a pattern. Myka studied men.

Pete dove. Straight in.

Pete didn't think. Not like that. When he was with a woman, Pete was a whirlwind of hands and lips and words. He didn't hear himself when he whispered. He didn't censor himself when he ran his fingers over her bare flesh for his own pleasure as much as hers. He was a man of hedonism. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. And his taste in women was no different. Usually, he went for party girls. Pretty little things with big smiles, easy laughter, and zero expectations of him once the sheets had cooled. That wasn't to say that Pete preferred airheads, per se, but they certainly kept the sexual experience nice and simple. Smart women, sexy as they could be, weren't simple. They didn't use their sexuality as freely. They didn't want a quick roll in the sack and an empty bed come sun up. They certainly didn't giggle and gush and tell a man in no uncertain terms that they found him fuckable. They wanted talking. And great expectations. And more talking. And promises kept. And mistakes owned up to. And rugs from Pottery Barn. And more freakin' talking.

Pete feared the commitment needed to keep a smart woman. So he stuck with pretty and giggly and "I'll call you sometime"s.

Both of them now felt like fools.

Myka had experienced her share of sex, but she'd never been overwhelmed. The studious lovers of her past paled miserably in the blinding heat of Pete's love. He fucked like a man possessed, all hard and soft and sweet. And he didn't stop. Not even for five minutes. He couldn't get enough of her. Just as she couldn't get enough of _him_. But unlike her, he didn't seem to tire. She felt utterly exhausted; wrung out as he squeezed every single drop of pleasure from her and demanded more. Always more. He was insatiable. Just as she lay spent and whimpering softly in his arms, her back spooned against his chest and boneless from his dizzying lovemaking, he'd gently pry her thighs apart and take her from behind. Her whimpers turned to cries as her body weakly welcomed him in, yet again. As he stroked her senseless for the millionth time, he'd whisper to her, just like she hoped he would.

"I can't help it," he murmured, clasping her hip and driving deep as he held her tight. "I have to have you again, My." He tipped her chin towards him so that he could reach her lips. Her torso turned back to him, searching for the kiss he was so eager to give. "Come for me again?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't," she moaned against his lips. "It's too much. You're too much. I can't take it, Pete. It's too good."

He smiled and stilled inside her, locking her ass tight against his groin. "You feel that?" He flexed his cock inside her, making her shiver and clench him in response.

"Yes. Oh god, yes."

His smile grew as he brushed it over her sighing lips. "That's me, My. That's how bad I want you. And that's where I'm staying until you come again." He caught her moan of tortured desire in his mouth. "I can wait all night, baby."

Myka exclaimed as he bucked suddenly, her core stretching wider than ever before to accommodate his powerful thrusts. She came raggedly as he held her close, absorbing her trembles and relishing her sobs as he pounded out his own orgasm and roared with his release.

Myka was dazzled by him, no question.

But it was Pete that was completely blown out of the water.

Pretty and giggly was fun, but never in his life had sex been _devastating_. Pretty and giggly girls liked his body and made no secret of it, but they had never explored him with the slow adoration that his partner lavished on him. Just like her books, Myka poured over Pete, using her body as a means to read him. And not only was he read with a scholar's appreciation, he was also listened to very carefully. He felt her rapt attention on his every groan, every whisper, every single endearment he called her. He could sense her filing them away, cross-referenced with what she had done to make him utter that sound. Kissing his chest made him murmur incoherently. Rubbing his back made him purr. Raking her nails through his hair made him smile and moan her name. Whispering his name in _just_ the right pitch made him instantly hard. And she tracked him, as well. His scars, his bone structure, the miniscule dips and lines that made his body his own. He felt her memorizing them.

She recorded all of it, and damn if Pete didn't feel like the luckiest man alive under her infatuated scrutiny.

In the past, women had enjoyed him. _This _woman drank him in. Absorbed him. _Learned_ him.

Pete had never felt so loved in his life.

Now, sated for the moment, he flipped to his back and dragged her with him, not satisfied until she covered him head to toe. Drinking in her kiss again, he finally let her rest against him. She sighed blissfully as she sank into his frame, each piece of them lining up with spooky complement. He felt her drifting, even though he was wide awake and already wanting more. Not sex, necessarily, just more. More kisses. More sighs. More staring at her. More everything.

"Sleepy?" he asked, his fingers looping into her curly hair as she lay on his chest.

"Mmm-hmm," she answered, placing a small kiss on his pectoral. "Little."

"Still love me?" he whispered playfully.

She chuckled tiredly and lifted her head to look at him. "Sadly, I can't seem to help it."

He smiled wanly, but didn't laugh. "Really? You wouldn't have chosen to?"

Her smile dipped until it matched his softer one. Gently reaching out to trace his face, she answered, "It's not that. I love loving you, Pete. But..." She paused and looked away.

He reached up and chucked her chin back up. "But?"

She sighed. "Before the arrow, I was too afraid to love someone like you."

His brow creased and he cocked his head. "I don't get it."

She looked at him unblinkingly and Pete once again felt her razor-sharp mind calculating him. He inhaled quickly at the feeling. At length, she answered. "Loving you is like loving a sports hero. Or an author, for me," she added amusedly. "It's adoring someone who's adored by many." She stopped, watching him process. "Women adore you, Pete. And you adore them. I was terrified of the possibility..." she paused again, looking for the words. Her finger skimmed one of his eyebrows. She watched its progress as she spoke. "You know that Aretha Franklin song, _Chain of Fools_? That's what I'd be terrified of. Just another fool in a chain of fools who loved you and wasn't loved in return."

She smiled warmly, even as he frowned at her description. "You look annoyed."

His hands slid possessively down her body until he gripped her waist and ground her into him. She hummed softly at the sensual glide of his rough hands. But his words were even rougher. "You think you're a fool to love me?"

The mojo'd gold in her blood had long since destroyed any defensiveness she might have felt at his tone. "I think you've broken many hearts, yes."

"And you're next? Is that it?"

Her eyes darkened at the suggestion. "I'd better not be, Pete. You might have been a heartbreaker and I might have been a coward, but it all stops now." He watched her expression turn gloriously stormy. "I will not tolerate a broken heart, Pete. Not from you."

His devilish smile roared to life. "And what about mine? What are you going to do with _my _heart, now that you own it?"

Upping her own smile, she leaned down and kissed him softly. "I...(kiss)...promise...(kiss)...to be brave...(kiss)...and trust it to love me, just as mine loves you."

Pete growled approvingly and returned her kiss, his hands roving hotly down her sides until she broke them apart and laughed softly. "Can I nap first?" she asked him. "Making love to an addict is hard work."

His aggression increased at her words. "I warned you."

She trapped his hands to the mattress and leaned down to kiss him lazily again. "I know. Still love me?"

He relaxed under her and smiled against her lips. "I love you a million zillion. Sleep, My. I need to take care of something anyway."

Knowing that he was just as hopelessly besotted as she was, Myka didn't question what precisely that something was. Instead, she slid to his side and cuddled deep. "Kay. Be here when I wake up."

Pete grinned and kissed her head as he slowly slipped out of bed. "See you in your dreams, pretty baby."


	15. Chapter 15

Myka was sound asleep by the time Pete had finished dressing. He paused by his bed as he loaded his pockets up with his wallet and keys, gazing at the angel dozing sweetly in it. Her expression was one of relaxed happiness, one he'd never seen her wearing before and planned to make her wear from here on out. She was curled up on one side, her wild hair fanning out on his pillow. He liked thinking about the room as his. It made it easier to think of the woman who'd willingly entered it as belonging to him as well.

He picked up his gun and holstered it before leaning down and kissing her again. "Mine," he whispered to her sleeping form. She murmured in her sleep and cuddled deeper into the bed.

Certain that she'd heard him, even fast asleep, Pete huffed smugly and moved to the other side of the bed. There was a foot of space between it and the wall. He edged between it carefully and reached down. Patting the floor _very _carefully, he managed to fish both arrows out of the crevice where Myka had thrown them. The lead arrow and its broken gold cousin balanced in his hands as if watching him expectantly. He separated them, one in each palm.

He held up the lead. "You I need."

He lowered it and held up the gold. "You I thank."

With one final, loving glance at Myka, Pete quietly grabbed the list of infected people off the table and left the room, shutting the door softly so as not to wake her.

He was methodical.

Using the city map in his car, he located each house with ease. He knocked on the door, asked for them by name, then when they came to the door or identified themselves as the person he was after, he simply reached out and nicked them on the hand or neck with the lead or gold arrowhead, depending on which they'd been hit with first. Myka, his beloved geek, had deduced whom had been cut with which. It was all in her notes; her neat, lovely handwriting making him warm in a way that the Louisiana bayou never could. Over indignant yelling and threats to shoot his ass right off their property, he thanked them and left. He knew they wouldn't follow. After a few seconds, they'd pitch and stagger to the floor, get a good night's sleep and wake up feeling like a million bucks tomorrow morning. The damage might have been done with whomever they loved or hated, but at least those people had control over themselves again. Pete figured it was the least he could do.

His final stop was the jail. Flashing his badge, he apologized for the late hour and asked to be taken to the judge's cell. The guards walked him through, but denied his request to go into the cell itself. Too dangerous, they said. The man was worse than a starving animal in a cage. Pete nodded.

"I understand. Could I have a moment alone with him, then?" he asked politely.

The two guards looked at each other before nodding and leaving the otherwise empty row of cells. Pete stood in front of a dark room, squinting through the bars. He felt two haggard eyes watching him back. He could barely see their owner in the darkness.

"You." The judge's voice barely passed for human. It cracked like dry leaves. "You promised me."

"Yee-ep," Pete warbled cheerfully. "Promised you Katie. I know. But see? I went over to pick her up and the lady was just so darned pretty that I had to take her for a spin myself. I can see why you want her, man. The woman's body just won't quit."

It was almost too easy, really.

Ackerman_ flew_ at Pete. Literally flew. He roared out of the darkness and into the bars with a terrifying smack. Pete hadn't quite been prepared for his speed and nearly had his face torn off by the judge's hands clawing between the bars. Screaming every obscenity Pete had ever heard, plus a few others he hadn't, Ackerman attacked with such animosity that it almost looked like his frail body would succeed in tearing through steel and cement.

Pete calmly stepped to the side and raised the lead arrow. "You're welcome."

The tip cut cleanly into the man's exposed forearm. Ackerman didn't even notice. He kept swiping madly for Pete, intent on killing the man who'd dared touch his woman. His blood ran freely down his arm and dotted the pavement at Pete's feet. Satisfied, Pete turned without another word and left.

"_I'll kill you_!" A savage scream echoed down the corridor and threatened him.

"Okay then!" Pete answered lightly, not turning around. He shoved the metal doors open and thanked the guards on the other side.

"Did he give you any trouble?" one of them asked, looking over his shoulder at the faint racket behind him.

"Nah," Pete waved his hand. "In fact, I think you'll have a new man in there at sunrise."

They gaffawed heartily at him and slapped his shoulder. "Later, man."

Pete smiled and clapped them back. "Later indeed."

He walked out into the dark parking lot and stretched languidly, staring up absently at the stars. Man, his entire nervous system felt incredible. Twisting this way and that, he felt relaxed, but buzzing like a beehive at the same time. Wired. Alert. Not to mention satisfied within an inch of his life. Granted, he hadn't had sex in a while and breaking abstinence always felt good, but this was different. He felt as though he'd been shot clean through with something.

He checked himself and chuckled at his own analogy. Shot through, like an arrow. He bristled a little at his second thought. Or a syringe. Either way, he supposed he was shot up good.

Which is why his final chore of the night was so important.

Holding the two arrows in one fist, Pete made his way back to the SUV and climbed in. Checking his map again, he angled the car towards the last destination of the evening before he got to go back to Myka. Some distant, tiny piece of him didn't like what he had planned, but at the same time he had no choice.

And it didn't take long to get there. Seriously, how hard is it to find a swamp in Lou?

Pete kept the car on the road, stifling the urge to drive right up to the water's edge. As much as he didn't like the idea of walking around in the dark when gators were nocturnal, he couldn't risk sinking the heavy 4-wheel drive mother either. So he drove as close to the edge as he dared before parking and getting out.

He stood still in the muggy darkness, listening as carefully to his ears as his did to his vibe. The was no breeze. Cypress trees hung limply over the water. Moss squished wetly under his feet. Fireflies flicked on and off around him. Strange creatures called to each other. But his vibe was clean and he heard none of those creepy, rumbling hums that gators made. He figured he was safe as he could reasonably hope for and stepped quietly to the edge.

He wasted no time. This wasn't the place to waste it.

He lifted his arm. Dangling in his hand was a hard case, two quivers inside, ten arrows in each. He'd restored the two he'd been working with to their respective homes before he'd left the jail. He was now certain that all twenty arrows were safe within and launched the case hard and far over the water. It landed with a muted splash and disappeared almost instantly.

Pete didn't stay to watch. Gators were ambushers. He jumped back into the car and reversed out into the grass before turning around and driving as fast as possible back to civilization.

He smirked as he watched the miles of unfriendly marsh pass him on each side. No one would find those arrows now. They couldn't be used again by anyone ignorant or desirous of their power. No more enraged attacks. No more unrequited love. At least at their hand, anyway. Old Pete rattled in his mind, objecting to the fact that they weren't going to the warehouse, where everything of that kind of power was supposed to go. That was his job. Find the pointy shiny and keep it all locked up. But arrowed Pete reasoned that the Louisiana swamplands were just as good a hiding place as the warehouse in the Dakotas was. There wasn't a soul crazy enough to venture into that water, not that they'd know to look there in the first place. Nope, this spot worked just as well for their final resting place.

Pete shifted in his seat as his real reasons whispered their unwelcome taunts.

_Liar,_ they jeered. _You want Myka. All you care about is keeping Myka to yourself. You're a sad little addict who's thrown the key to the liquor cabinet away. Artie can't fix her. Just like he can't fix you. And that's how you want it. You like taking what you want and you like that she's taking what she wants, too. You don't give a fuck about anything else. Nothing!_

Pete felt no real annoyance at this voice. His guilt had vanished with his anxieties about his love for Myka. Knowing that he didn't want either of them to go back to the way they'd been didn't faze him much. Myka felt the same way. Hell, she'd cut him with the gold arrow out of defense as much as desire. He'd tried to inoculate her. Look how bad she hadn't wanted that to happen.

The swamp was behind him now and the road to the hotel was getting shorter and shorter. Pete grinned. In a few minutes, he'd be with her again. Their job was (sorta) finished and they could spend all day just wrapped around each other. His chest made a rumbling sound that would have rivaled any bull gator. Myka. Beautiful, wonderful, adorable Myka.

The little voice of Old Pete was right. All he cared about was keeping her. He didn't give a fuck about anything else.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Myka was dreaming.

Deep asleep in Pete's bed, she rested in a peace she'd never known as his scent in the sheets comforted her and the warmth of her feelings for him made her heart glow in her chest. She shifted, sighing softly, waiting in unconscious anticipation for him to return. She thrilled at the promise of it.

Pete. Coming home to her.

Her lips smiled, her mind unaware of it.

Suddenly, he was there. Calling to her. Her mind recalibrated around his presence. He was in her head, whispering her name.

_Myka..._

There was no voice. Yet it was definitely him. He'd said her name. Or, more accurately, he'd thought her name.

_Myka. Baby? Can you hear me? _

_Yes_, she thought to him. _I can hear you. Where are you?_

She felt him smile. _With you. Always with you. _

She thought a smile back to him. _I miss you. I want to see you, Pete. I want your eyes when I wake up. _

The sensation of his smile grew bigger. _Then wake up._

_But..._

_Just wake up, My. Look at me. _

Murmuring, Myka's eyes fluttered and opened. Groggily, she lifted her head and expected to find nothing more than a dark room and the cooling remnants of a dream. Instead, she found Pete, sitting on the bed and gazing at her warmly as his fingers pressed softly along her temple. His dark brown eyes melted her. Just like they always did.

_Hey._

She jolted at his ghostly word, which did not originate from his mouth.

"Pete?" she whispered with sleepy confusion. "What are you doing? Were you just...? How were we just-?"

_You know how, _he thought to her_. You vibed me before. Now I'm vibing you_. He grinned. _Neat, huh?_

Her eyes were huge with incomprehension. "This isn't a vibe, Pete," she told him in a hushed, awed tone. "This is telepathy. You're _talking _to me!"

_So talk back_, he urged to her, nodding his head. _En El Vibo, por favor. _

She huffed in confused amusement and closed her eyes against his contagious smile. Concentrating hard, she automatically reached out and took his wrist in her hands, her fingers searching for the pulse that matched her own. The beat grounded her. She looked into the abyss of her own mind and called.

_Pete?_ she thought tentatively. _Can you hear me? _

She heard him gasp as his blood pumped steadily under her touch. His consciousness connected with hers. _Hi, baby. Sleep well? _

_I can't believe this_, she thought in amazement. _How is this possible?_

_No idea_, he laughed in her head. It filled her like music. _I just thought I'd give it a try since you managed to reach me before._

She felt something move in his mind as he tried to hide something from her.

_Pete? What is it?  
_

_Nothing_, he thought sheepishly. _It's just... that you vibed me twice, that's all._

She cocked her head, her eyes still closed against his as he watched her. _Twice? I only remember the one._

_Well,_ he drawled. _The first was in the car. That night...with the heartbeat thing? Like you're doing now? You vibed me then._

_What did you feel?_ she asked inquisitively.

She felt his embarrassment. But only for a moment. _I felt your lips on me, My. I felt you..._

She sensed his hesitation. He was suddenly shy in telling her, but then suddenly she gasped as the feeling of pleasure washed over her in a drowning wave. Her head fell back as she felt the ghost of someone's lips playing havoc on her body, namely, they were licking her out in a way that- until Pete- she'd never experienced. She went rigid in the bed, clenching Pete's wrist between her fingers, her back bowing violently as the incredible sensation of spine-melting oral sex shot through her core.

_PETE! _she named the phantom in her body as she was wracked with sexual pleasure. She fell back, moaning aloud and whispering his name in her head. Her eyes rolled and fluttered behind her lids, trying to open but forgetting how. Finally, she managed it and found him staring at her in shock.

"My?" It was the first word he'd said since his return.

"Baby," she whimpered back, shivering and pulling the sheets completely over her body. "My god. What did you_ do_?"

Still staring at her, he took both of her hands in his, massaging them lightly. _Nothing_, he resumed their silent chat. _I just thought about what happened to me that night._

She kept her eyes open now. _That's what happened to you? You imagined me going down on you?_

He smiled, happy that she could see it. _I didn't imagine anything, hot stuff. We were clocking each other's pulse, and then suddenly BAM! You were in my blood, driving me crazy with that sexy mouth of yours. _ His smile softened. _I didn't mean to think about you like that, My. Honest. I just happened and I couldn't stop it. _

She smile back, wanting him to see she didn't mind. _Did you come?_ she pressed shyly.

_Indecently hard and with your name on my lips. Why? _he wagged his brows and leaned down. Pressing a teasing kiss into her ear, she sensed as his thinking turned low and rough. _Did you?_

She moaned again and leaned up into his lips. _You know I did. You heard me_.

His kiss moved to her throat where he left a wet, broken trail of kisses. _Care for a dose of the real deal? _

Her combative streak rose up and Pete responded to its presence, pressing her harder into the bed. _Bring it, Pete. I dare you. _


	16. Chapter 16

In the end, the hotel called the name on the credit card they'd used to check in.

No one answered when they rang the room. Just like no one answered when they knocked repeatedly on the door.

Normally, it wouldn't have been a big deal. Plenty of guests wanted their privacy and didn't even want the maid service to enter. The hotel's policy stated that they should be left alone until they checked out. No sweat.

But problems mounted quickly when the occupants of Peter Lattimer's room kept half of the floor up with their constant lovemaking. A dozen other guests had described it in explicit, unneeded detail.

"Yeah, can you please get the people next door to knock it off?" Room 455 asked. "I'd tell them to get a room, but Jesus. They need an entire mansion to stifle that noise."

"I have kids in here!" Room 461 complained in a scandalized tone. "Those people are going at it like animals! Make them stop immediately."

"Look, either tell them to pipe down or video tape them for me. One or the other, just hurry up already!" Room 452 sounded more amused than any of them.

Management was getting desperate. Short of keying the lock and finding God knows what, they went with their only other option.

"Hello, is this Mr. Arthur Nielsen of the Secret Service?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Artie had been looking for a particular file in his office when the phone rang. Having strewn papers everywhere, it took a minute to locate the phone.

"Hello?" he asked hastily once he'd plucked it off the floor and answered it.

"Yessssss," he answered the question slowly.

"Ah," the professional voice said. "Excellent. Sir, this is Oliver Dubois, manager of the Hotel Thibodaux. I believe two of your colleagues are staying with us?"

Artie raised a brow at the Southern-accented man's question. "Yessssss."

"Sir, I hate to put you in this position, but I need your help. I cannot get ahold of your agents and it's very important that we speak with them."

Artie lowered himself into a nearby chair. "Is something wrong, Mr. Dubois?"

An awkward pause was all Artie needed. Crap. What have those two done now?

"Sir," Oliver sounded strained. "They're upstairs as we speak. Now I hate to be such a terrible prude, but we've been swamped with complaints about noise coming from the room and it's vital that we get them to stop directly."

"Noise?" Artie cocked his head and quickly scanned his memory for any noise associated with the arrows or any of the technology they took with them. He came up empty. Worried about exposure, he questioned carefully. "Could you be more specific?"

"Um..." Another strained pause. "Yes, sir. I can. The complaints have all insisted that the two people in Peter Lattimer's room are having quite vocal...relations."

"Beg pardon?"

"Sex, Mr. Nielsen," Oliver said quickly. "They've been having quite vocal sex for gone near six hours now."

Artie gave a startled snort of disbelief. "I see...um...you're certain?"

"Mr. Nielsen," Oilver sounded wry, even over the phone, "I've been a hotel manager for nigh on twenty years now. I know barricaded hotel sex when I hear it."

"I see," Artie offered, utterly clueless as to what to say to the man. Sex? Who's having sex in Pete's room? Pete was definitely a candidate, for several reasons, but Artie couldn't imagine Myka letting him get away with it. Especially for six hours. And where was she anyway?

"You've tried Agent Bering's room?" he asked.

"Yessir. No answer there either. The maids inform me that her room has yet to be used, aside from stowing her luggage."

"But she's at the hotel?" Artie was feeling more baffled by the second.

"Yessir," he repeated. The strain was coming back. "Room service has sent food for two to that room many times, most of which Miss Bering signed for."

There was an awful pause as Oliver debated silently. Artie could hear it. He braced himself.

"Sir," the manager began, "it's this man's opinion that your two agents are in that room together. Right now."

Artie barked a rough laugh. "Impossible."

"This is a hotel," Oliver pointed out gently. "People come here to do impossible things."

"They're there on assignment," Artie argued with this total stranger.

"I'm sure," Oliver offered politely. "I only offer what looks like the most rational conclusion."

"We don't deal in rational," Artie informed him cryptically. "Thank you for the call, Mr. Dubois. I'll handle this."

"Please do so. Good day, Mr. Nielsen."

Artie was hanging up the phone and reaching for the Farnsworth at the same time. "What the fuck is going on over there?" he muttered to himself.

He opened the case and called Pete. The hollow tin box rang. And rang. And rang and rang and rang.

"Dammit," he muttered to himself. He flipped it shut and used his cell phone to call Pete's. No answer. Myka's. Voicemail.

"Dammit!" He gave it a bit more feeling this time.

He tossed his cell onto his messy desk in frustration and tried to think. He lifted his glasses from the bridge of his nose and pinched it, working out the ache. Okay, he thought. Pete called yesterday to explain what had happened at the priest's home. Myka had been attacked, but not injured. Pete left the local PD in charge of the search and took her to the hotel. Artie hadn't heard from them since, but assumed they were waiting for the house search to conclude before they called him, hoping to give him good news.

Artie resettled his glasses and took a deep, cleansing breath before reaching for his cell again. The operator put him through to the Thibodaux Police Department.

"This is Agent Nielsen of the Secret Service," Artie chaffed at using his official title, but pushed ahead. "I'm Lattimer and Bering's superior. What can you tell me about the Kusamba case, Sheriff?"

The local man sounded baffled by his question. "Agent Nielsen. Our boys found your arrows late yesterday afternoon. Agent Lattimer took possession of them at that time. We haven't seen either him or Agent Bering since that time. I assumed they'd headed back to your camp, now that they'd found what they were looking for. We're still searching for Kusamba."

Artie's silence unnerved him considerably. "Have your agents not checked in with you yet, sir?"

"Thanks for the update," Artie uttered robotically. "Good work."

He hung up before the sheriff could question him further.

Pete had the arrows as of yesterday. Neither of them had called to inform him. People were having loud, marathon sex in Pete's room. Myka's room was empty and had been since they'd arrived. Neither were answering their phones or doors.

Artie pulled another lungful of air. It did nothing to calm him. With slightly shaking fingers, he reached out and picked up the Farnsworth again and flipped it open. He stared at the vague set of buttons under the screen, not liking his last option one little bit. He eyed the green button with distaste, just next to the red button that he used when calling his team. His Farnsworth, the master copy, was the only one that had one. Sighing resolutely, he got up and walked over to a strange console that neither Pete nor Myka had ever really paid attention to. Artie pushed a few stray papers off the surface, uncovering a plain brass top with a rectangular inset. Carefully, Artie laid the open Farnsworth into the inset until he heard it click into place. The inert console hummed to life, its key activating it with ease.

Hating what he might see, Artie spoke to it. "Lattimer, Pete."

The merged technology registered his request and went searching for its sister Farnsworth, wherever she may be.

An increase in the hum's volume told Artie that it had found it. The green button on his communicator lit up and blinked expectantly at him. Waiting for him to press it.

He closed his eyes against it. "If you show me what I think you're going to show me..." His threat didn't finish itself.

Instead, he reached out and pushed the green bastard.

The machine whirred loudly and a 3D projection filled the center of his office, spilling out of a side lens like a movie reel. The space was alive with the ghostly image of Pete's room, as seen from the sister Farnsworth's point of view, which appeared to be from a small table. Moans filled the room at a startling volume and Artie grabbed the dial on the console and turned it down.

The bed was the centerpiece. His agents were the stars.

Artie watched in acute shock as Myka and Pete -sprawled across the mattress- thrust savagely against each other and groaned as their bodies smacked together. Pete had Myka pinned. Her legs were wrapped around him possessively, her slim calves caging his sides and rubbing him up and down as he pounded hard between her thighs. Her head craned back into the pillow, her mouth a stream of praise and her eyes shut tight against the pleasure. Pete's expression was a mask of flinty concentration. His back rippled angrily under her stroking hands as he worked himself over her. His arms held him up, ropey columns holding his weight. As their young bodies twisted erotically together, his words hissed through Artie's office, clear as day.

_"Say it again, baby,_" his ghost image demanded.

"_I love you,_" Myka whimpered. "_Show me how much you like hearing it._"

He gave a low chuckle and drove harder. She wailed in approval, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Stop!" Artie barked.

The image froze. Thank God for that feature. He turned away against the proof and gave a defeated huff of air. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Backtrack. One hour."

The machine obediently rewound the footage to one hour before. The same room materialized. More moaning filled the room as Artie was treated to a view of Pete up against the wall, Myka kneeling at his feet and sucking him eagerly.

"_Jesus, baby_," he groaned above her, his head lolling from side to side as she blew him hard and fast. "_Fuck!...Yeah, just like that...Oh, my God...Myka...You're so...amazing...Harder!...YES_!"

"Stop," Artie rasped softly. He felt absolutely sick. His agents. His dependable, capable young agents. He shook his head slowly.

"Backtrack. Three hours."

He was getting numb to it. He supposed that was a good thing as the most aggressive sex yet appeared before him. Neither Pete nor Myka seemed able to form words as Pete took her from behind on the bed, Myka sobbing incoherently on her hands and knees as Pete pistoned against her ass like a crazed lunatic. His roars echoed loudly in Artie's office, so much so that he didn't hear Claudia when she entered the room in impish curiosity.

She smirked as she sauntered up next to him, sex oozing from the screen and into the air, as Artie watched with his mouth hanging open.

"What's up there, Spice Channel? C'mon, Artie, I'm a child for God's sake. I shouldn't have to be subjected to walking in on my boss peeping at _ohmygodthat'sPeteandMyka_." Her words fell all over themselves as she took a closer look at her boss's would-be peep show and smacked her hands across her eyes.

"Ewewewewew. Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!"

"STOP!" Artie roared at the machine, whirling towards Claudia and holding up his hands, as if they could block the real life scene in front of her. "It's not what you think."

"Pete and Myka _aren't_ having sex in their hotel room?" Claudia asked through her fingers, sounding appalled. Artie wasn't sure if it was because he was insulting her intelligence by suggesting otherwise, or if she simply found the idea that disgusting.

"Okay. It _is _what you think," he amended quickly. "But there's a perfectly logical explanation."

Claudia regarded him skeptically from the V of her fingers, still refusing to lower them. "Because they're both hotties and have mega-obvious crushes on each other?"

"Ew." It was Artie's turn. "And no. Wait, what? They have mega-obvious crushes on each other?"

Claudia lowered her hands in exasperation and turned to the Farnsworth. "Machine? Sex machine thingy? Turn off, please."

The console obeyed her command and powered down. The flickering image of the hotel room disappeared and she gave a relieved sigh. Turning to his desk, she started rummaging frantically through his papers.

"What are you looking for?" he asked worriedly as he settled beside her.

"Pencil," she answered distractedly as she tore the drawers open. "I need to poke my inner eye out now."

Artie grabbed her grasping hands and dragged her to a chair over her whining objections. "I can't have that image in my head, Artie! It'll scar me for life."

"Hush," he batter at her absently as he pulled another chair and sat next to her. He held his hands in prayer form against his lips and gazed at her mournfully.

"I think we have a situation down there."

Claudia raised her shoulders at him. "Duh. A nekkid situation."

"I think the arrows are responsible."

This sobered her a bit. "The gold dealies? The ones that make you fall in love?"

"Yes, the gold 'dealies'," he drew the word out unevenly. "And they don't make you fall in love, Claudia. They make you act on feelings you already have."

"But," she gestured to the empty space that had held the show, "They were both going at it hardcore. Which one of them got dosed?"

Artie raised his brows and sighed heavily. "I can't imagine either would participate unless both were infected."

"Both?" Her eyes went round. "No way. They're not stupid, Artie. Even if one got nicked, the other wouldn't let themselves get cut. More than that," she gestured in frustration, "they would have called us and let us know if one of them had been infected." She looked at him plaintively. "Right?"

His head shook from side to side, disagreeing and thinking. "I don't know, Claw. I really don't."

Claudia narrowed her eyes. Artie never called her Claw. Only Pete. His distraction must have been absolute to slip like that.

"So what do we do?" she asked, smacking his knees to make sure she had his attention.

He jumped slightly at the contact. His brown eyes worried between her and the phone. "We call Mrs. Fredrick," he said with defeated frustration. "Get them back here and most of all," he slapped her knees right back and startled the hell out of her with his uncharacteristic touch, "we find those damn arrows."


	17. Chapter 17

After almost seven straight hours of mind-blowing lovemaking with Myka, Pete finally fell onto the mattress, unable to lift so much as his head from his pillow. His body, so frantic to stay bound to her, collapsed like a lead weight. He'd tried. He'd tried so hard not to stop. But exhaustion got the better of him. Panting, sweating, and moaning hoarsely, he turned to his side so that he could at least watch her in his burned-out state.

The air he inhaled froze in his lungs.

The woman he was crazy about was so fucking gorgeous.

She lay on her side facing him, all of her dark, glorious hair swept away from her face. Sweat glowed on her skin. Some of hers, some of his. She was trying to catch her breath, her shallow little gasps were adorable as she did so. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her throat and breasts were red from his bites. Her inner thighs were trembling from gripping his hips for hours...and coming so hard that adrenaline was causing her to shake.

Her eyes. Man, he couldn't take the loveliness of her eyes.

She looked at him thoughtfully, watching him recuperate from the sex marathon she'd put him through. Never one to keep his thoughts to himself, he admitted softly, "I can't even think when you look at me." Not a fan of keeping his hands to himself, either, he reached out to touch her face. "You're too pretty. It's like you won't let me."

Myka smiled wanly. "Trying to sweet talk your way into another round?" she teased lightly.

Pete grinned and shook his head. "Later. Right now, I just want to look at you."

She dipped her chin shyly and closed her eyes against his appraisal. _You embarrass me. _

She hadn't realized she'd thought it until he answered her. _Only because you're even prettier when you blush. _

She jolted a bit, still unused to their new-found ability. She scrunched her eyes tighter and concentrated, looking for him in the darkness. There...

She felt him. She felt him thinking all around her. Or more precisely, she felt him being around her. It wasn't his thoughts, not all the time, but more like his personality. Right now, he felt lazily content. She sensed him sprawled in her mind like a well-fed lion, content to lay vulnerable and sated in her presence. She pressed around his edges, trying to analyze as best she could.

_What are you doing?_

She smiled blindly at his face and answered mentally. _Feeling you up. _

He chuckled and rubbed gently over her hip._ Hot. Why? _

She laughed softly. _Gee. Maybe because there's another human being in my head. It's a new experience for me._

She opened her eyes as a thought occurred to her. _Is it for you? _

Dark eyes sparkled at her from the pillow next to hers. _A new experience? Talking with someone like this? _

She raised her brow and nodded. _Yeah. So is it? _

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he watched her. She felt him holding back, waiting for her reaction. Her arrowed blood gave it with no trouble. Her jealousy rose, fast as flood water.

_Well? Have you?_

Pete saw her eyes flash and felt her anger pop in her head like bottle rockets. She in turn felt his amusement at her covetousness and got even angrier. _Answer me or I'll punch that grin right off your face. _

She felt him go soft and reassuring in an instant. Something settled over her, warm and encompassing, and suddenly her entire being felt hugged by a stronger force. She resisted at first, still feeling annoyed, but the sensation tightened, every bit as stubborn as her, until she relaxed into it.

_Never_, he answered silently as he held her close with his thoughts. _I've never spoken to another living soul this way._

He smiled at her and her anger melted. _I didn't even know it was possible, My. Not until you managed to reach me. No one's ever tapped in like you have._ His fingers traced randomly down her shoulders and breasts. _It's crazy. To hear someone else like I hear you now. Maybe, with practice, we can do more. Remember each other's past. Learn each other's education. _ He grinned wider. _I'll never have read another sentence. I'll just check into the Bering Library of Knowitall and pull whatever I want. Greek mythology, here I come. _

Myka chuckled and, remembering her Greek mythology, thought of the arrows. She couldn't figure out what role they played in all of this. How did they manage to link them in a way that wasn't recorded anywhere in history, or even mythology? Cupid wasn't known for dealing in telepathy.

Once again, she felt him intercept her thoughts. _Because they're not responsible, baby. You vibed me before either of us was nicked by them. This...thing? Whatever it is? It's all us_.

He winked and spoke out loud. "Just us."

"And the arrows?" she asked absently, scooting closer and nuzzling into his shoulder. "What do we do with them? Do we just take them back and pretend that nothing happened? Meet in dark corners and hope no one sees?"

Her questions were idle, which is why the massive shift in Pete's mind startled her. She lifted her head to look at him as her clumsy, newborn vibe searched his thoughts. He was piling boulders and boxes and oceans of debris in her path, not wanting her to see. Her fingers slipped to his pulse point under his jaw and she dove even harder, his rhythm bolstering her clarity. She closed her eyes and pushed into his head.

_Gone._

She cocked her head and pushed deeper.

_They're gone.  
_  
"Pete?" Her voice sounded odd in the riotous hush of their minds.

"No," he denied her.

"Gone," she repeated his fragmented thought. Still holding his pulse, she opened her eyes. "Where have they gone?"

His dark gaze met hers. She felt his vibe, nimble and strong, working hard to evade her. His vibe was decades older than hers and he'd honed it well in that time, he wasn't used to hiding his thoughts from people. He was naturally open. And trying to hide a secret from his Myka felt like trying to hide a gasoline fire in the dead of night. Noticeable for miles away, in other words. It felt like a beacon in his head.

_The swamp._

Her eyes flickered. She saw-or rather _remembered_-a swamp. It was night. It felt warm. A faint observation of fireflies, and that they were pretty. She felt anxiety about the deed and fear of predators. She heard a splash in the water. She felt his relief at the sound.

Pete's memory. She couldn't tell if she'd stumbled across it, or if Pete had given it to her.

_Pete, did you leave the arrows in the swamp? _

Annoyed relief filled his head, and hers by proxy. She sighed and nodded for him.

Pete expected a rip-roaring fight and readied his excuses. I love you. I need you. I can't allow Artie to take you away from me. Hell, I'll kill him if he tries. He prepared to beg like no man had ever dared. Instead, he gasped when she released her mental grip on him and settled back down against his throat, sighing happily and continuing to stamp him with indolent kisses. His relief melded with her smug satisfaction about his late night endeavor. He sensed her feral pleasure in the knowledge that they could never be parted now. God help anyone who tried.

_Good boy_, she told him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mrs. Fredric was never a woman that appeared pleased.

Calling her stoic was a euphemism to say the least. Saying she had the pissy air of imperious mother-in-law was closer to the mark. Suffice it to say, she took good news impassively and bad news irritatedly.

Artie had dropped some bad news.

Hence, the woman sat in his office, looking none too happy.

Artie knew this, so he simply skipped the apology. It wouldn't help. It wasn't wanted. He pushed forward into the solution. He sat across from her, his hands pressed together as usual, helping him focus his thoughts.

"I need guys."

"Guys?" she echoed caustically. "I'm not a mafia boss, Artie. I can't simply supply you with 'guys'."

"You can and you will," he disagreed patiently. "If this were any other circumstance, I'd take care of it myself, but it's not and I can't. My agents are infected with gold arrows. I saw the proof of it with my own eyes. That means that if I show up and demand they hand them over so that I can inoculate them, they'll probably shoot me where I stand."

Mrs. Fredric watched him blankly. He understood her cues enough to know he needed to continue.

"I can't subdue them, not even with another artifact," he explained. "I won't risk cross-exposure. We've seen too many ill effects in past cases. I won't risk it. But either one of them are capable and-as of now-willing to kill an old librarian like me if it means they can stay together." He paused and nodded gravely. "I need them black bagged while they sleep. I need them restrained. I need them brought back to me. I need to tear through all of their notes and interrogate them until we locate those arrows. Pete had them, so within our sphere. Somewhere."

The two older agents regarded each other through tired eyes.

She barely blinked as she delivered her indictment. "Your people got sloppy."

He barely blinked back. "My people are flawless. We have no idea what happened. Don't assume anything until we have them."

"I don't mean the arrows. I mean their emotions. This never would have happened if they hadn't allowed themselves to fall in love."

"When it's a perfect world, you let me know."

They sat in silence again.

At length, she stood up and sighed. "One team. Delivered tonight to Louisiana. Your agents will be captured and expedited here. You will get them to divulge the whereabouts of those arrows and retrieve them forthwith. You will inoculate each of them before you store the artifact. And you will reprimand their carelessness once they've been cured. Understood?"

Artie stood with her and gestured to the door. As he led her out, he didn't feel it necessary to point out that two happy, bewitched hearts, once broken, were reprimand enough.


	18. Chapter 18

If he hadn't been so tired, Pete might have seen them coming.

The room was dark. The hour was late. He and Myka slept peacefully, spooned tightly together in his bed. Their bodies had figured out long before they had that this position made them the happiest. Myka felt sheltered. Pete felt protective. And the warmth created between them acted like chloroform, knocking them out instantly. After spending all day fucking like the end of the world was nigh, they fell into an exhausted sleep.

Pete was somewhere dark and dreamy when his arms were ripped from Myka and pinioned behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulders and he woke screaming. He saw a dark room with even darker figures moving around in it, maybe five or so, before a black bag was thrown over his head and the world went dark. "NO!" he roared at the top of his lungs. Something hard smashed into his ribs and knocked the wind out of him.

Myka screamed in panic as her own arms were yanked behind her and her head bagged in the same fashion. "NO!" her scream echoed Pete's. "Pete! Leave him alone or I'll kill you!" she spat furiously. She was ripped to her feet, naked save for the bag, and shoved back into one of the ghostly men in black.

"Shut up," he hissed softly in her ear. "Or we'll cut his throat."

"Noooo," she moaned in agony, fighting her restraints so hard that her tendons strained in her joints. "Let him go. Just take me and let him go."

"Shut up, My!" Pete's voice wheezed loudly from across the room. In his blindness, Pete imagined the worst as five men stood in the same room with his naked lover. "You touch her and I'll shoot every last one of you, so help me God."

Cold metal drove into his stomach and he collapsed to the floor. With stars dancing behind his retinas, Pete barely registered the pain and launched himself from his knees and collided into his nearest attacker's shins. He heard the man grunt in surprise before he fell backwards onto the floor. Pete was doing his damnedest to rip his head off without the benefit of his arms before he was wrenched up by them. He hissed, his muscles screaming in pain.

He was grabbed by his hair and ripped back, same as Myka. "Keep struggling and we'll take turns with her. You get me?"

Pete went rigid with rage. "Myka?"

"I'm here," she answered in a shaking voice. Fear and fury took turns dominating her. One of the hotel blankets was thrown roughly around her, covering her modesty. "I'm okay, baby. They're not hurting me."

"And we won't," the voice behind him continued, "unless either of you gives us trouble. Then the other one pays. Got it?"

"Fuck you," Pete's voice dripped. A blanket was wrapped around him briskly.

"Don't you _touch_ him," Myka almost shrieked.

"Then quiet," the voice ordered them. "Don't make a fucking sound."

Pete and Myka gasped as both were pricked by a needle in the arm. Burning sensations filled the flesh around the shot and both moaned in terror for the other.

"Myka," Pete called in a cracked whisper. _I love you._

The drug smashed into Myka like a truck. Her head went fuzzy in an instant and she sagged in her captor's arms, quickly losing consciousness. _Pete_, she thought back in a daze. _I love you so much. _

Then nothing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They awoke hours later. Cold. Moving. And strangely, completely dressed.

Pete came around first. Being bigger, the dose hadn't hit him as hard. He took in the immediate information. He was no longer bagged, which was good. His arms were still bound at the elbow behind him, which meant that they'd knocked him out, cut his bonds, clothed him, then rebound him. His stomach was a ball of agony where he'd been hit. He head was shattered. Yet he felt none of it as he searched the dark, metallic space around him.

"Myka?" he called softly. "Baby, please tell me you're here."

A soft moan answered him and he nearly sobbed. _Where? _he thought into the black. _Where are you?_

"Here," a small voice called from somewhere on his right. He heard dragging noises slowly getting closer until, to his mindless relief, Myka -bound and fully clothed- managed to inch her way to him. His eyes were adjusting. He could see that she was in the same position he was; locked at the elbows in a painful restraint behind her back, but wearing a tank top and her dark jeans. She didn't appear to be injured, but then, he couldn't see that well either. As she finally pulled herself up in a sitting position next to him against the wall, Pete leaned sideways and pressed his forehead into hers,

"Myka," he breathed shakily. "Oh God, baby, please tell me you're not hurt." A million horrors shot through his mind, starting with those assholes raping her while she was blacked out.

Shivering and breathing in shallow pants, she sought the comfort of his lips, kissing him with frightened little presses and breaking his heart because he couldn't hold her and chase her shakes away. "I'm not," she whispered. "My arms hurt, but they didn't..." She didn't continue. She didn't want to scare him by saying the words out loud.

A terrified smile and harsh bark of laughter broke in his throat. "You're sure?"

She nodded, nuzzling his angular jaw. "Yes. I can tell. I'm fine." Wanting to comfort him, she summoned her body's physical input and pushed it into their shared mental space, hoping he could somehow feel it with her. His breath caught and she pushed harder.

"See?" she asked hopefully. "See that I'm okay?"

Pete was flooded with the sense of another person's physicality. Smaller arms, more flexible than his, felt pained, but less pain than his larger, more unyielding arms felt. He felt her awareness of her smaller torso. Her head. And most importantly, Pete sensed her lower region. He fixated on it, determined to know if those monsters had touched her. He pushed into that part of her self-awareness, reading the feminine indicators of what felt normal down there and what didn't. He was amazed to feel the internal mechanics of her, so very different from his own, more outward-facing state. He sank deeper, probing and asking her at the same time. She felt warm there. _Was that normal? _She felt soft and slightly tingling, her channel sending messages along her nervous system, informing her -him as well- that a man had worked magic inside her. _Was that normal too?_

He felt her smile in the darkness at his last question. _Not until you. _

He didn't smile and pushed at her consciousness again. She pushed back at him with a calming certainty. _I'm fine, Pete. I promise._

"Dammit, I want to hold you," he murmured angrily, capitulating and pressing relieved kisses into her cheeks.

"Me too," she whispered back. "Who are these people? Where are they taking us?"

They stopped and listened to the dull, muted sound of an engine. It was huge, and outside of the cube they were trapped in.

"We're in a plane," Pete surmised. "A cargo plane."

"How can you tell?" Myka still shivered at his side and it tore him up that he couldn't rub her bare arms to warm her. He nudged her away from the wall, wanting the freezing metal off of her skin. "C'mere," he muttered, anchoring one leg around her and corralling her into the V of his legs. Once she'd leaned back into his chest, he sighed contentedly and answered her.

"They used them to transport us back when I was a Marine," he said, propping his legs on either side of her and using them to trap her more fully. "I'd know that heavy sound anywhere."

"A plane," she echoed wanly, melting back into his warmth. "We're going back."

"Back?" Pete hooked his chin over her shoulder. "Back where?"

"Home," she answered distractedly. "Artie's bringing us home."

"No way is this Artie's work," he replied. "He would never-,"

"Never what, Pete? Know that we'd never tell him where the arrows were? Know that he'd fight him tooth and nail if he tried to put us back the way we were?" She didn't use the term 'fix us'. Pete noted that with satisfaction.

"No," Pete disagreed. "He wouldn't go this far. And how would he know about us in the first place? We haven't spoken to him since the cops found the arrows."

They both paused and rolled the possibilities in their minds. Yes, it was possible. Artie might know. Hence this kidnapping scheme. He wasn't taking any chances. He wanted them captured and unharmed. He wanted the arrows. And he wanted them inoculated.

Her head dropped back against his throat and her body went lax in defeat. "I'll kill him, Pete. I'll kill anyone who takes you from me."

Pete didn't blink. "So will I. You're _mine_."

She sighed again. "Artie knows it, too. So the question would be, how would you get us home?"

Pete dropped his head against hers and grunted in pained frustration. "He'd snag us and bag us."

Myka shook as the reality of their situation sank in. "He'll find them. He always does. He'll find the arrows and he'll cut us, Pete."

His legs tightened at her sides, squeezing her. "No!" he hissed darkly.

She whimpered with impotent fear as Pete's chest roiled in fury against her trapped arms. "He can't," he rasped, fear creeping into his voice. "He can't fucking do that. You'll despise me forever if he does. You won't... You'll stop.." Pete choked on his anger. "I'll fucking _kill _him!"

Myka sensed his panic and turned her cheek against his, rubbing her smooth skin against his scratchy jaw. "I'll never stop," she soothed him quietly. "I'm a coward...and a mess. But I won't stop loving you, Pete. Nothing can change that."

The dull throb of the engine disguised a bit of his violent shudder. She continued to caress his face with hers in lieu of her hands, hoping to calm him. She turned awkwardly until she could bury her face in his throat, fighting off her own demons as terror chipped at her mind.

"Just love me back," she begged him.


	19. Chapter 19

Claudia threw her hands up in irritation and gave Artie what could only be called a 'horseshit' snort of disbelief as he finished telling her his plan.

"Black ops? Like, men in black? Seriously? You're saying some dudes in ninja outfits swooped in, kidnapped them, and are shipping them to us now?" Artie nodded and she snorted even harder. "Friggin' brilliant. Excellent use of black, ninja guys. Very nondescript."

"Claudia?" he replied tiredly, gesturing to the chair opposite his as she paced his office. "Focus, please."

"Fine," she huffed with bad grace and flopped down into the seat. "So Pete and Myka have been hogtied and will be here inside of an hour. What exactly would you like me to do?" Her willingness to participate didn't take the bitchy tone out of her question.

Artie ignored it. "I need you to call Leena and get her down here. I want their auras read. The depth of their feelings and hence the severity of their infection should show up in the color spectrum they emit. Second, I want your help getting them off the plane and into the warehouse. We need them as calm as possible if I'm going to question them and 'ninja guys' are _not_ calming. Friendly faces are key."

Claudia shook her head, sucking on her lower lip and rolling her eyes in annoyance. "Artie? Seriously, I'm not down with this. I love these two. They're like my brother and sister!" she barked, then rethought, "...who...happen to be boinking...gross. But the point is that they're like family and throwing them into a cell and interrogating them is a little too Skywalker for my tastes."

Artie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, reaching into his strained patience. "They're sick, Claudia. Everything I'm doing? Needs to be done in order to save them. I sent an asshole platoon and not us because, as much as we love them, they'd attack us for trying to help them. They can't see straight, Claw. They only see each other. Anyone trying to change that will get a government issued bullet in the brain."

Claudia made a noise of angry disbelief. "They wouldn't."

Artie smiled with no pleasure. "They would." He looked out the window and swept his arm wide, indicating the whole of the warehouse on the other side of it. "We live in smoke and mirrors. All of this stuff, thousands of artifacts, can temper the human condition."

"It's love, Arto. Not zombification."

"Mad love," he corrected quietly. "And mad love is more violent than an army of zombies."

Claudia pulled a deep breath and blew it out in defeat. When she sought Artie's gaze, he was saddened to note how much older she'd grown in the past few minutes. "What if we can't fix them?"

Artie swallowed and looked away. Against his will, his imagination saw Myka and Pete, frozen in stasis and stored among all of the other dangerous people the warehouse homed, waiting decades, centuries, for those arrows to eventually pop back up and find their way into the hands of future Secret Service agents. He shut his eyes against the idea, hating the knowledge that if he was unsuccessful, the order would be handed down. Freeze them. Store them. Find replacements.

He shook his head. "Not an option," he answered brusquely as he stood up and checked the warehouse airfield camera feed. The screen showed a blip heading straight for them. The plane was close. He turned back to his young assistant. "Call Leena. Help me get them into the warehouse, then I want you to tear their stuff apart. Start with the SUV rental. I want that car flayed open. We have no idea if they still have the arrows or not and if they don't, then we have to figure out where they hid them."

Claudia nodded, smiling weakly. "Hertz is going to be pissed. You won't get your deposit back."

A snort of laughter was startled out of him. "Come on," he gestured to the door. "They're coming."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They felt the drop in elevation and the sound of the landing gear shift underneath them. Myka, nestled tiredly into Pete's chest, lifted her head as the clinks and thumps filled the air.

"We're here," she whispered softly.

Pete grunted in annoyance, burying his face into her hair and breathing deeply, seeking comfort. "I know," he answered gruffly.

They gasped as the plane jolted onto the ground, jostling them in the metal crate. Pete groaned as his arms smacked into the wall behind them. They ached like a bitch. The restraints had cut his circulation off hours ago and the unnatural angle of his shoulders was causing his muscles to wail in agony. But Pete barely noticed. Myka was curled into him, soft and sheltered and needing his body heat. The pain in his arms ran a distant second to the fact that he simply couldn't hold her. That hurt considerably more.

"You okay?" he asked into her curls.

"Yeah," she nodded and turned to look at him more fully. "You?"

"Swell."

She smiled and chuckled dryly. "Great. Once we're back home, how 'bout a movie?"

He smiled back, his eyes looking almost black in the darkness. "Perfect. Something funny."

"And a little stupid," she added.

"_Weekend at Bernie's_?"

She laughed with more warmth and snuggled into him affectionately, chest to chest since her arms were still bound tightly. "It's a date."

They felt the plane slow as it taxied down a rough runway. Pete sensed her smile leave her when she asked, "The runway behind the warehouse?"

He sighed. "Probably."

She tensed against him. "Stay with me," she said. "No matter what happens, stay where I can see you."

"Damn right," he replied, rocking her between his stiff legs. "I'm not leaving you."

The engine was killed and, after hours of dull throbbing, the ensuing silence felt just as deafening. Heavy boots pounded the metal walkways outside of the crate. Muted talking. Chains pulled through locks. A lever thrown open and suddenly flashlight beams filled the crate as the heavy door squeaked open and their escorts peeked inside.

"Same rules," a voice barked into the crate at them as they blinked against the harshness of the light. "No bullshit or the other person gets fucked up. Got it?"

Myka glared into the light and answered. "Keep us together and we'll come quietly."

The voice in charge made no answer, but the door was opened all the way and the unit moved in calmly. Surprisingly, they pulled Myka to her feet gently, minding her arms and keeping their hands on her shoulders. Now that they had their prey quasi-immobilized, the team could afford to be kinder. They prodded her towards the door, but her freezing, aching legs wobbled and she nearly fell. One of the larger soldiers grabbed her waist and kept her up while two other men pulled Pete to his feet with the same care.

"Hold up," said the one holding Myka. "Give them a minute. Their legs are asleep." He kept his hold on her very professional as he looked down at her with distant concern. "Rotate your ankles and wiggle your toes," he ordered placidly.

She did so. Not because he told her to, but because she might need all of her agility if an opportunity presented itself. She stretched her muscles from hip to toe, nodding to Pete to do the same. After a minute or so, they were pushed out into the night air and down the ramp.

Arid, boreal air hit their faces and both of them breathed deeply, welcoming its clean, light essence into their lungs. Dakota air. Both had missed it terribly. Pine and snow and a lack of mold spores made for a wonderful scent. Myka turned to Pete in the dim.

_No more humidity_, she thought to him.

_Ah, Nowheresville. How I missed you_, he thought back.

Ignorant of their conversation, the unit prodded the two forward onto the runway and towards the end of the strip. A car was waiting. One that they'd recognize anywhere.

Claudia and Artie stood anxiously as they approached. Neither had any idea of what to expect when their friends were nudged towards them by an armed guard. Claudia's eyes widened with surprise and anger as their shadowy figures came to a stop in front of them. They were smudged with dirt from the crate. They were shivering. Their eyes were frightened and furious at the same time. They looked like hell. Heedless of Artie, the soldiers or her friends' possible reaction, she stepped forward and hugged Myka, gasping at the coldness of her skin. Her hands found Myka's bound arms behind her back and she instantly pulled back so she could turn her around and see for herself.

"Oh, Myka," she said softly. Myka's arms her bound at the elbow, the plastic strips cutting deep into her skin. Blood was already coating the white little bands. Claudia peeked around Pete's back and saw the same bind. She rounded on her boss. "What the _fuck_, Artie?" She spun back and shoved her finger into the barrel chest of the nearest soldier. "You!" she spat acidly and began tearing at his utility vest. The soldier looked over her head to Artie.

"Sir?"

Artie came forward and took Claudia by the arms, pulling her back as she fought to keep frisking the soldier.

"Give me a knife!" she yelled as she wrenched her arms away from Artie before he managed to restrain her and pull her away. "No!" she yelped angrily. "They're in pain, goddamn you. Give me a knife to cut them loose!"

"I can't," Artie muttered quietly, gazing at his agents as he spoke. Even here, in the dark, he could see it. The simmering fury and distrust in their eyes, which for now was muted because they were together. But he knew. He knew the moment he separated them, the moment he starting asking questions, the moment he showed them a lead arrow, that fury would stop simmering and completely boil over.

Freeing them was not an option.

Instead, he spoke over the struggling girl to the captain. "Why weren't they cuffed? You had no call to tie them this way."

The soldier didn't emote as he spoke. "Orders, sir. Mrs. Frederic was very specific. These prisoners were to be treated as a Class 5 situation. No warning. Rendered unconscious. Bound with zero chance of escape." He gestured to the agents. "They have training. Cuffs are surmountable. Pinioning is not."

"Fuckin' jarheads," Claudia cursed them from Artie's hold. He shook her gently, indicating she be silent.

He nodded at the captain. "We'll take them from here," he informed him.

The captain shook his head exactly once. "Negative. We escort them to their cell. Orders."

"No," Artie retorted. "You've done plenty. I'll take it from here."

"But, sir-,"

"You heard me," he interrupted, staring at Pete and Myka, who had been silent for the entire exchange. It worried him. A lot. A cold stone settled in his stomach as he thought of old Myka, who would be shrieking at him to let them loose, and old Pete, who would have been full of wiseass remarks. But now, they just returned his stare. Watching him carefully.

He had no way of knowing that their feral stares were exact copies of one infected Judge Wallace Ackerman.

He summoned all of his calm and gestured to the open door of the car. "Myka. Pete. Please. Just get in."

In loaded silence, they obeyed.


	20. Chapter 20

The bumpy ride back to the warehouse was brief in terms of mileage, but eons in terms of pained silence.

Artie drove. Claudia sat next to him, her head bowed against the pressure of anger and defeat. Pete and Myka sat quietly in the backseat, trussed like wild turkeys, freshly caught. Not one word spoken. None were needed, to be fair. They all knew the score. Between a lynch mob and their condemned prisoners, what was there to be said? Such was the guilt of the people in the front seats. Such was the burn of fear and injustice by those in the back. Artie watched them from his rearview mirror as the warehouse SUV skittered down the dirt road.

Yes.

The difference was noticeable to anyone who'd known these two more than four days. Myka was curled into Pete's shoulder and chest, her eyes vacantly staring at the floor. Pete was trying his damnedest to accommodate her comfort while assuming an aggressive posture at the same time. The hollow under his collarbone where her head rested was only made possible by the squaring of his shoulders. His head was ducked into his torso, perfectly aligned. A human battering ram. He didn't have much recourse, so he'd tensed himself up, ready to plow into anyone threatening Myka and bowl them over like pins. Not that Myka needed protecting. Artie stared at his younger female agent and snorted softly. Myka had no cause to square her upper body up. With her arms out of the equation, Artie knew damn well that her deadliest weapons were her legs. They might look shapely and gorgeous to any testosterone-addled rube, but Artie knew they were as flexible and dangerous as a rodeo bronco's, if he was stupid enough to get within kicking range. Her waifish, damsel-in-repose look against Pete was almost comical. She'd kick the kneecaps out from anyone before they realized what happened.

And those were the differences. Clinging to each other for safety and reassurance. Ready for a fight.

Artie moaned inwardly. This was going to be awful. Just fucking awful. These people were his family. His atrophied, cantankerous old heart thumped his ribs on purpose, smacking him for what he _had _to do. It didn't approve, not one damn bit. It didn't get out much. It didn't bother with affection often. The next few hours were going to tear it to pieces and it was thumping loudly in protest. It was too old for this crap, dammit. What right did Artie have ruining their obvious love for each other after he'd spent his whole life with his own heart in a Mylar bag like a damn first addition Batman comic? Never taking it out, even for a spin, because to do so was to risk wear and tear. Now it sat in his chest, unscathed, old and alone.

Mint condition was overrated.

He blinked rapidly as he slowed out of habit in front of the warehouse. The headlights illuminated the ancient door.

"We're here," he mumbled unnecessarily, turning off the ignition. The hum of the engine died. The following silence was even louder.

The two in the back couldn't move. The girl in the front awaited her boss's cue. The man himself sat stone still, not reaching for the door handle or even shifting in his seat. He merely stared straight ahead. Praying for a miracle.

"Please."

The whisper startled three of them. Artie's gaze shot to his mirror. Myka was looking at him from Pete's chest, her eyes wide, her expression imploring.

"Artie, please."

The older man shuddered and dropped his gaze, shaking his head at her via his reflection. "I have to, Myka."

"You _don't_ have to." Her voice didn't lift above its soft, beseeching tone. "Just let me have him. We can all stay a team. Nothing has to change. Just let me keep Pete, Artie. Let us stay like this."

It was such a simple request.

Artie shook his head harder. "I can't. You know I can't. You're too compromised."

"Compromised for what?" Pete's stronger voice barked loud over their soft conversation. "We're not crazy, Artie. We're not incompetent, either. Just let us go. Let me love Myka the way I need to. I promise, our work won't suffer."

Artie's gaze sharpened and pinned Pete in the mirror. "Prove it, Agent. Where are the arrows? Tell me right now and show me that you're capable of doing your job. Where is the artifact you were meant to retrieve?"

Pete pulled an angry breath through his nose. His jaw flexed tightly. He stared at Artie and didn't back down from the old man's expectant gaze. Myka, hating the question, turned her head into Pete and buried herself deeper. Artie huffed in frustration and smacked the steering wheel. "Crissakes, you two," he muttered under his breath.

He shoved his door open and clambered out.

Pete called after him. "I can't! You'll use them against us!"

Artie yanked the side door open and took Myka by the shoulders, easing her out. She resisted, but Artie's hold was too strong. She got her legs under her and stood by while he peered in at Pete. "Get out. And don't think of running, either of you. A perimeter has been set up. Black Ops guys have been ordered to shoot on sight with no warning. If you love each other, then behave. Resisting will only get one of you killed."

Pete gasped softly and Myka hung her head at his side. Artie hated the words popping out of his mouth, but he knew it was the only way. They were too far gone. Any glint of hope, and they'd do something crazy if it meant freedom. And Frederic's men would kill them if they stepped one inch off the warehouse grounds. He'd had no say in that, no matter how much he'd objected. He prayed the threat alone would be enough to scare them, not for their own lives, but for the other.

Eyes flinty, Pete slowly stepped out of the car, ducking awkwardly to clear his arms before he straightened. He side-stepped Artie and his threat and siddled up to Myka, bending down and kissing her gently, heedless of his boss or Claudia as she slowly ambled to their side of the car.

"You still good?" he asked his lover, nosing her cheek and smiling softly.

She smiled weakly and nuzzled right back. "You still owe me a movie."

Pete chuckled and nodded as he continued to caress her face with his. Artie and Claudia were rooted in place, shocked at their behavior and their clear indifference to an audience. Claudia instantly felt like an intruder. Far from forcing them apart and prodding them with questions, her immediate instinct was to leave them alone, preferably in one of the B&B bedrooms, and stay well away for...well, days. They'd had a long, uncomfortable flight. They deserved to kick off their shoes, have ice cream in bed, snuggle deep into the covers and do what consenting adults do when they're head over heels.

Artie felt no different. Watching his friends, he had a hard time seeing a spell at work. What he actually saw was a natural step in a romantic relationship that, before today, he'd been totally oblivious to. Pete and Myka were good partners. Good friends. Stable. Dependable. With just a little bit of nonsense thrown in for color. Seeing them now, he finally saw what Claudia had mentioned earlier. They did indeed have mega-obvious crushes on each other.

He cleared his throat at them. Not stepping apart, they merely looked over at him.

He gestured. "Inside, please."

Again, they were silent. Again, they obeyed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Claudia was glad to escape. The whole thing had an Ick Factor of eleven and she wanted nothing more than to be a thousand miles away from this thing. Somewhere with warm beaches and drinks with little paper parasols, as long as she was wishing for stuff. But instead she stayed outside the warehouse main entrance and waited for those moronic G.I.s to unload the cargo plane and bring her the stuff they'd taken from Louisiana. The agents' luggage, notes, tools of the trade, the rental, everything.

She rubbed her arms and huffed a clouded breath into the air, watching it burst and disappear into the chilly night. On some very few days, this job sucked something fierce.

Light footsteps perked her ears and she turned at the sound. "Hello?"

"Me," a feminine voice called out. Leena walked into the yellow light of the porch light, holding her arms across her shawl much the way Claudia was. The two women smiled with no joy at each other.

"Hey," Claudia greeted. "You, uh...You here for the parlour trick portion of tonight's party?"

Leena snorted softly and nodded. "I've been booked for this gig, yes. Are they inside yet?"

"Yep."

"Is it bad?"

Claudia's head tipped slowly as her eyes rolled sardonically. "Oh, yeah."

"How bad is bad?"

"Depends," the punk replied. "If you're a romcom fan, then not so much. Otherwise..." She let the sentence peter off.

They looked at the ground between them for a minute, listening to the crickets.

Finally, Leena looked up through her lashes at her friend. "You know this won't end well without those arrows."

Claudia shifted on her feet and kept her eyes down. "Not really. Artie won't tell me what will happen if we can't find them."

Leena's chill deepened. She rubbed her arms, looking for warmth and finding none. "They go into the vault."

Claudia's eyes shot up. "No," she whispered, horrified.

Leena nodded sadly. "Mrs. Frederic won't allow them their freedom without a lead arrow, nor will she imprison them for the rest of their lives. The only solution she sees in the vault, so if and when the arrows are ever found, they'll be released and cured, still young with their lives ahead of them."

"That's cracked," Claudia spat digustedly. "It'll never happen."

"No, it won't," Leena agreed vehemently. They heard a truck ambling at a distance. Leena didn't look towards it as she spoke. "That's why I'm going in there to help get them to talk and you're going to rip that truck to shreds. We're finding those arrows, Claudia. The alternative is unacceptable."

Leena turned away from her and stepped up to the door, yanking hard and disappearing into the belly of the building. Claudia turned back and cursed at the truck for its slowness. Inside it somewhere was a clue to what she was looking for. The jarheads had no luck when they collected everything. Not an arrow to be found. But Claudia knew. Somewhere in that seemingly useless collection of stuff, Pete and Myka had left her a present. It was small, and it was enigmatic, but it was going to tell her how to find the artifact.

It had to.


	21. Chapter 21

Artie managed to escort them into a room neither one of them had ever seen before and set them down in two chairs -one of either side of the room- without any trouble. He wasn't sure how. God knows he could feel their resistance to him rolling off of their bodies in blasting hot waves. Yet they walked quietly in front of him, arms still bound tight, until he led them to their final destination.

Once seated and facing each other across the white, bare room (no bigger than a decent sized bedroom), Artie went to work. With their arms secured over the backs of the chairs, he picked up a set of threaded handcuffs that were bolted to the floor behind them and slapped them over each of their wrists. Once they were both cuffed and chained to the floor, he finally opened his pocketknife and cut their plastic bonds from their elbows. Neither of his captives made a single sound, but he grunted from them both as he gently pulled the straps out of their skin, which stuck slightly as their coagulated blood had bonded to them. He winced as they started to bleed all over again, red rivulets trailing down their bare arms.

But they didn't notice. They were too busy watching each other, barely aware of his presence.

Artie stood up from his work and looked quickly at the two-way mirror on one side of the room. Aside, from the chairs, it was the only noticeable thing in the room. Well...at least from their perspective.

Artie let his gaze travel along the wall, up to the ceiling, and down the opposite wall. He doubted they'd ever notice, but a seam ran along that path, thin as a dime, that gave this room the leverage he was looking for. He had their cooperation because they were within spitting distance of each other. He knew enough about those damned arrows to know that being in the presence of the object of their affection did wonders in terms of their compliance. However, it would also give them no incentive whatsoever to talk. If he'd separated them, the interrogation would go nowhere. They'd simply kill themselves trying to escape and find the other. This room, however. His eyes lifted up again. Should they refuse to answer his questions, punishment would fall. And that punishment was a paper-thin wall -bulletproof, light-proof, and above all, soundproof- which would slide right out of the ceiling and cut the room in half. They'd lose sight of the other. They'd lose sound. They'd lose every precious way they had of communicating with each other. And it would stay that way until they agreed to be reasonable.

He looked back down to them. They were still caught up in each other's stare. Oblivious.

He cleared his throat, for all the difference that made. "I'm going outside to talk to Leena. When I come back, I want the location of the arrows, Pete. I know you have them, or did at some point. Just tell me where they are and we can get back to business as usual. Got it?"

They didn't respond. Hell, they didn't even look at him.

He sighed and stepped pointedly out of the middle of the room. "Something to think about," he threatened unwillingly, and walked to the only door leading out, smacking a green button on the wall as he left. The shining white wall fell like a shot from the roof and cut the room cleanly in half. Artie didn't see their startled jolts in their chairs, nor did the slamming door let him hear Myka (now on his side) as a strangled sob left her.

Nor did he care. Yes, he understood that they weren't themselves. But hey, if they wanted to get stubborn with him, then they could sit in Time Out. He didn't have the energy and god knows he didn't have much time. The Regents were a ruthless pack of bastards and they put a clock on damn near everything. If he couldn't get the arrows fast, then they'd make it so that Time Out for those two lasted a hell of a lot longer than was usual.

He huffed in frustration and ambled down the corridor to the two-way mirror. Leena stood looking in. She didn't acknowledge Artie as he came to stand next to her. Her eyes stayed glued to the split room in front of her, Pete on one side, Myka on the other. They were both struggling valiantly against the cuffs that had them sitting and bound to the floor. Pete was grunting and shouting her name hoarsely as he pushed with his legs and pulled with his bound arms. Myka was just as desperate, yanking against the cuffs with no luck and calling for him over and over.

It was horrible to watch.

Artie rolled his head from side to side. He suddenly had an enormous headache. "What do you see?" he asked without looking over.

Leena didn't answer right away. She continued to stare, her expression hard and unreadable. Myka had her special attention. The woman couldn't seem to stop reading the invisible colors that only she could see in the brunette on the other side.

"Leena?"

She blinked and looked over at her old friend. "Sorry," she offered quietly. "I just..." she looked back, then back to him, "This is a new one for me. It's a shame their auras wouldn't show up on film. I'd like a picture."

"What do you see?" he repeated.

"I..." she looked back again, entranced. "I see..."

He waited. She seemed content to leave it there.

"You see...?"

"I...I can't explain it. I used to see green in Pete. Always green. It meant he was content. Well-adjusted. Happy. And Myka used to be dark orange. It changed subtly over the last year as she settled and accepted her role here, but it stayed in the dark red realm. It meant she was alert. Sometimes angry. But generally, just not at complete peace. Now..." she gestured into the room at them tearing themselves apart, as if their new colors were obvious to all.

"Now what?" he pressed. They didn't have time for vagueness.

"Artie," she began, biting her lip as she gazed back at him. "They're white. Both of them. Pure white. And their auras were calm when you were cuffing them and they could see each other. Now they're...well, they're getting brighter. And bigger. The auras are straining towards the wall separating them." She took a measured breath. "It looks like their auras are trying to reach each other through the wall."

Artie looked in and only saw their physical bodies straining towards each other. He saw nothing of their colored souls that Leena did.

Leena watched with him, her eyes wide with wonder. "I've never seen white," she murmured softly. "I don't even know what it means. It's...beautiful."

Artie pushed back. "I'm going to help Claudia and give these two some time to settle down. Something tells me that questioning them is pointless anyway. If we're going to find the artifact, we'll have to do it without their help." He turned to her. "Watch them?"

She nodded. "Every second."

He nodded back and hustled down the corridor. "Call if there's trouble," he said over his shoulder.

Leena waited until he was out of sight and slowly expelled a shaking breath. She didn't have much time. She jogged the short distance to the door leading in and opened it to Myka's side, closing it quickly as she did.

Myka stopped her struggles and turned, staring daggers at the person she assumed was Artie. Leena gasped at the hatred pointed at her. It stopped her in her tracks.

Myka's eyes softened a fraction. "Please, Leena," she begged pitifully. "Please let me see him."

Leena nodded and made herself move quickly to Myka's side, kneeling down to her eye level. "I'll do you one better," she whispered to her. "I'll let you loose. You'll have to stay in here, but you can be with him. And don't!" she held her finger up angrily, "try anything. I let you out of those cuffs, I reopen the room, and you behave. Deal?"

Myka nodded desperately. "Anything. Anything you say. Just hurry."

Leena nodded and pulled out her master key set, opening the cuffs with no trouble, she immediately turned and nearly sprinted for the door. She loved Myka, but she didn't trust her any farther than she could throw her right now. She smacked the green button as she flew out the door, the wall retracting, just as she slammed it closed and locked it.

Jogging to the mirror, she looked in in time to see Myka leap into Pete's lap, straddling him and kissing his grinning face in a hundred different places. He was still fighting wildly against his cuffs, now because he wanted to touch her as she cupped the back of his head and kissed him in desperate relief.

Leena watched as Myka sensed his ripping tendons and pulled back, running her hands soothingly down his biceps. "Don't," she rebuked softly. "You're hurting."

His smile didn't pull back an inch. "Myka," he crooned, oblivious to the pain she detected. "Thank God."

She smiled back and resumed kissing him. Leena smiled with her, be it more pained. She watched as Myka continued to pet him across his shoulders and down his chest. Pete, for his part, obeyed her request and stopped struggling and was content to sit with her wrapped around him. He simply kissed her back and emitted rumbling purrs deep in his chest that triggered Leena's jealous bone against her will.

She'd never known love like what she saw in that room. Never.

She took a small step back and looked around the corridor until she spotted an antique chair decorating a dark corner. She retrieved it and, sighing in resignation, sank into under the window. She felt horrible about breaking her promise to Artie, but she wasn't about to watch them during such an intensely private moment. She'd stay in earshot. That would have to be enough.

Artie would be furious. She knew this, and she was ready to accept any punishment Mrs. Frederic might impose for her infraction. But from where she sat, she had no choice. Their auras had changed drastically, that much was true. And there were now white, again she hadn't lied. Perhaps that alone might have been enough for her to let them be together, simply because she didn't think it wise to separate two people with twin auras of an unheard of hue. It might have been enough, but a second color, visible only in Myka, had sealed the deal.

Pete and Myka needed to be together. To separate them was unhealthy.

For all three auras involved.


	22. Chapter 22

All thoughts of shredding Artie until he was a gooey pile on the floor evaporated from Myka's mind the minute Leena smacked that button on the wall and gave her Pete again. She didn't hear the door close, just as she didn't question the woman's motives. All she registered was Pete. She could see him. She could sense him. And most of all, she was free.

She plowed straight into his sitting body, launching herself into his lap and attacking his lips with desperate kisses.

That fucking barrier wall had not only robbed her of seeing Pete for a few agonizing minutes, it had also severed their awareness of each other. Whatever it was made of, it was obviously their personal Kryponite. It destroyed their link and she'd been enraged that she could no longer feel this man in her head. She was already used to his constant presence. Removing him from her mind felt lobotomizing. She moaned loudly, mentally and vocally, as she ran her fingers over his face, eager to reacquaint herself with its lines after several hours of deprivation. His lips smiled under hers, his shoulders jerking and wrestling the cuffs that bound him to the floor.

She winced at the pain she sensed in his head, even though he seemed perfectly unconcerned with it as he strained to touch her.

"Don't," she whispered softly, rubbing his arms and mentally reaching for him. "You're hurting."

He didn't care. His grin was contagious as he murmured her name and relaxed under her soothing fingers. He groaned into their kiss as her thighs wrapped around his hips, anchoring her to him. The restoration of their link brought an explosion of happiness in his head and nearly knocked her over with its intensity. She held on tighter, braving the dazzling display as it played behind her eyes.

"What happened?" he asked between kisses. "How did you escape?"

"I didn't," she replied distractedly. She was in no mood to talk. "Leena uncuffed me and opened the wall."

"Why?"

_Dammit, Pete._ "Shut up," she spoke to him simultaneously, silently and aloud. Her fingers snaked into his short hair as she trapped his head and silenced his irritating questions with more kissing. It was the only thing that kept her for going completely crazy. His mindless fury was also tempered by her nearness, so he abandoned his queries and focused on just how badly he needed the woman writhing in his lap.

_We don't have much time_, he thought to her, taking kiss after kiss and fighting the urge to see which would give first, the cuffs or his shoulder sockets.

_I need you. Right now_, she answered back, feeling his desire to yank free and wanting to distract him.

_Then take me_, he grinned mentally. _Take me right goddamn now, before they figure out a way to turn us back. _

_Don't think I won't_, she huffed to him. _Don't think for a second that I won't tear your pants off and fuck you in this chair. _

He groaned out loud. "Do it," he begged without shame. "Oh, my God. Rip me to pieces, baby."

"They'll see us," Myka chuckled, not giving a damn.

He gave her a smirk as he growled beneath her. "If they don't want a show, then they shoulda left us in Lou."

She was already up and off his lap, pulling off her tank top. Her bare breasts spilled out and Pete groaned low and dangerously. She didn't look at him, merely yanked her shoes, socks and jeans off before turning on him. He was already bursting at the seams. His erection was pressing hard into the unforgiving tightness of his jeans while the rest of him tensed and roiled beneath his clothes. His eyes had turned onyx, his head bowed low as he looked at her. She could feel his need boiling up in him with startling power, just as she could feel his arms tensing up, ready to start struggling all over again.

_Looking ain't fucking, My. Get over here or I'll tear my arms off to get to you._

She grinned at his threat and did as she was told, reaching down and yanking his pants open, pulling them and his boxers down his legs. She didn't tease. There wasn't time. Nor was their interest.

She straddled his bare lap, sinking down slowly until she encountered his tip. Soaking wet, Myka moaned quietly, worried that they'd be stopped if too vocal, as he slipped deeply into her aching body. Pete gritted his teeth together to keep from howling with pleasure as his pulsing cock was pulled into her tight little pussy and squeezed in welcome. Instead, he leaned forward and buried his nose between her breasts, groaning hotly as soft femininity embraced him everywhere. "Fucking love you," he muttered against her skin, the rest of the room dissolving around him into nothing. He turned his face, placing wet kisses along the slope of her breast until he reached her nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, pulling gently with his teeth, nibbling her and driving them both crazy.

Myka planted her feet firmly on the ground for leverage before she began an elegant rhythm, her hips swaying softly to and from his. She cupped his head in her hands as he sucked her before wrapping her arms around his skull, hugging the mind of the adorable man child that she knew she couldn't live without.

_Look at me_, she requested.

He gave a lingering suck before tilting his chin up to the woman riding him.

_Remember this_, she told him, holding his shoulders and arching hard, fusing their hips as she took all of him at once. Pete swore out loud.

She gasped at the breathtaking stretch of her inner muscles before continuing. _When they turn us back, remember this. Remember that I love you. I need you. Don't let me run._

_I won't_, he answered angrily. _You are not running from me. Not ever. We belong like this._

She smiled wanly, rising and falling even harder. Faster. _You're an addict. Stay addicted to me, Pete. I mean it. _

_And you're a coward_, he challenged back. _Don't you dare hide from me, My. I'll find you. I'll find you and I'll take you. I don't give a fuck if you don't want me.  
_

Myka whimpered and nodded frantically, her hands clasping his densely-muscled sides as she bore down on him with increasing fervor. _I'll try_, she swore to him. He could feel her terror as she thought of her old self running from him. She knew she was capable. What she didn't know was how severe old Myka's reaction would be to their actions.

Pete growled loudly as his release built with alarming speed. Fuck, if only he had his hands.

_Come for me_, he commanded. _I won't last long watching you like this and I need you to come._

Myka cried out before leaning forward to silence herself by biting the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Pete hissed with pleasure, making her sob even harder into his skin. She lifted her head and framed his face in her hands, watching his eyes as she delivered the only truth she'd ever known. "I love you," she said simply. And she came.

Gasping his name, she clenched him savagely, her body seizing up as pleasure tore through her in violent waves. Her eyes screwed shut as she sobbed, but she kept her head up. She wanted him to watch what he did to her.

Pete saw. And he came.

Roaring her name as it ripped from his throat, he bucked hard underneath her, spilling into her body and wracking him with terrifying convulsions. He twitched inside her, trying to stay, even after the fact. Myka felt his sorrow mount as his orgasm subsided. Still trembling, she hugged his head again, his ear to her chest, and gently stroked his hair. She started rocking slowly, completely unaware of her comforting overtures as they slowly returned to earth.

_Sing to me._

She smiled and kissed the crown of his head. _No._

_Myka. _She stilled. There was no teasing in his request. Just fear. _Sing to me? Please._

She snorted softly.

She didn't know many songs. She loved classical music so much that songs with lyrics, however pretty, didn't make much of an impact on her. At least not enough to learn the words. She didn't even know what octave she sang in. But she wanted to make Pete happy. They were on borrowed time and they both knew it. Wanting him to know that she'd do anything for him, she moved out of her comfort zone once again.

Naked and holding her clothed lover in a chair, she started humming softly to a tune she remembered from an old black and white movie that her mother had loved. When she came to the part with words, her smoky voice adjusted perfectly to the sultry old ditty.

"I've been kissed before," she began softly.

"Arms have held me fast,

You can tell by my kiss, you weren't the first

And you won't be the last." Pete grumbled against her and she smiled.

"With heart and soul, I kissed then,

And filed the memory under M," Myka felt Pete's mind chuckle as he imagined her filing away every kiss she'd ever received in the form of lipstick smooch prints.

"Tomorrow if I miss them,

That may be the only time I think about them."

She sang softly, not wanting the many ears of the warehouse to hear what was meant only for Pete. She continued to croon the words of a loose woman, feeling Pete's pleasure at her voice, even if the words were written to inflame a jealous lover. She was happy when she came to the end of the song. The final lyric was the only one she identified with.

"But someday I'll be kissed,

And maybe I'll doubt,

That I've been kissed before."

Pete sighed against her, feeling her sincerity at the last line. "Beautiful," he whispered. "_Affair in Trinidad_."

Myka lowered her head to rest on his, petting him gently. "Didn't peg you for an old movie buff."

Leaning into her as much as possible, he caressed her chest with his lips. "You should get dressed, hot stuff. I don't want Artie seeing you like this."

"Tell me how you knew it was from _Affair in Trinidad_ and you got yourself a deal."

He looked up at her again, smiling with a mix of sadness and puckishness. "What can I say? Rita Hayworth is hot."


	23. Chapter 23

There was blood on Claudia's fingertips.

That was the first thing Artie noticed when he ambled out of the dark corridor and into the cavernous garage-like space that currently housed the Louisiana SUV, the agents' clothes, their weapons, and their cases. She sat on the freezing cement, hunched over a small, black box. She was wiring it to her laptop, carefully using the lower lengths of her fingers to avoid getting blood on the equipment. She'd obviously torn through some unforgiving surfaces looking for clues before she'd settled on whatever she was doing now. But she didn't appear to notice her mini injuries, opting instead to simply work around them. Artie's heart softened at the sight of his little fix-it sprite. A Tinkerbell, in the purest sense of the name. An ethereal slip of a thing who looked like she could barely lift a claw hammer, and yet she burrowed into the grimy, oily, rusty mechanics of his world and reveled in the magic she could tease out of it. That's what she was, in all fairness. Magical.

And she was conjuring her next feat. He was sure of it.

"What have you found?" he asked, startling her with his voice. He eyed the SUV with distaste, noting that it was still intact. "Why isn't that thing in pieces on the ground?"

Claudia, without looking up, waved her hand dismissively at the car and went back to her computer. "No point. I have what I need."

"Share with the class, please."

"Well," she looked up again, wiping her red fingers absently across her cropped jacket, smearing it with streaks of blood. "I took inventory, noted the glaring lack of arrows, then made a brilliant leap of deductive reasoning and am currently watering it. Care to watch it bear fruit with me?"

"Elaborate, kindly."

Claudia heard his lack of amusement, but smiled anyway. She held up the little black box, waving it slightly. "How would our dynamic duo dispose of an artifact, Professor?"

Artie sighed. "Oh, hell. Break it. Burn it. Bury it." He paused a moment, thinking more carefully. "Bury it. Yes, that's probable. If not all three, but burying the remains is very likely."

Claudia nodded. "I've called the jail. Judge Ackerman is fine. I've found the other infected cases from Myka's list and called them, too. All of them, jail guards included, say that Pete paid them a visit. The guards don't know what Pete said to Ackerman, but all the other people said that a guy showed up at their door and cut them with a weird-looking stick." She looked at Artie expectantly.

He blinked. "And?"

She huffed, annoyed. "He had the arrows long enough to drive around and cure those cases, but he didn't have them when those douche bags picked them up at the hotel." She waved the black box at him again, raising her brows, waiting for him to see.

"Language," he chided automatically. "And I'm not following. Is that another artifact you're using to try and track where he went? I need to know which one, if so, although I can't think of anything we have that connects to a laptop unless you've pimped something, which I've repeatedly asked you to stop do-"

"Artie!" she snapped, cutting him off. "God, occasionally? Think Bruckheimer, not David Lynch." She waved the box for the final time. "I don't need some fancy-schmancy artifact. This?" She Vanna White displayed it to him. "Is the SUV's GPS. Welcome to the year 2003, old man."

"The GPS," he repeated slowly. "Pete. So that will tell us where Pete went after he finished inoculating those people."

"Aaaaaaand the last horse _finally _crosses the finish line," she chirped in a patronizing tone. "If he went back to the hotel, then we're back to Square One. Buuut..."

"Buuuuuut..." Artie's eyes brightened, not needing her to finish. His eyes, which had been gazing into space as he spoke, snapped back to her. "So what are you waiting for?"

She rolled her eyes. "I had to stop and share with the class."

Her fingers were a blur over the keyboard as she called up the GPS's tracking page. It appeared with a pop and she immediately pulled the last trip the car had made, just 12 hours before. Flush with hope, she quickly checked the addresses listed in Myka's notes to the stops listed on the map. All but one correlated to an arrow case. The final stop was a rather large detour, out away from the town.

"There was a farmer had a dog," she muttered happily as her finger traced the last leg of Pete's clandestine journey.

"Please tell me Bingo was his name-o, Claw," Artie begged as he bent over her shoulder, straining to see.

She turned her head to find his face right next to hers. When she grinned, white teeth filled his view. "Bingo, baby."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Artie called Mrs. Frederic. He explained their lead in measured words and sent the latitude and longitude of Pete's mysterious stop. Google Map confirmed that the area was uninhabited swamp, accessible by a single road maintained by the Department of Fish and Game. Pete had stopped there for two minutes, then flipped a 180 and headed straight back to the hotel. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had transpired.

"Search it," Artie ordered his boss, headless of her rank. "The arrows are there. I know it."

For once, he didn't get a sarcastic dig from the woman, which led him to think that she agreed with him. At length, her voice spilled into his earpiece. "They'll be there within the hour," she said finally. "Knowing Agent Lattimer, he threw the damn things in the water. His tracks should still be fresh. No doubt the team will find them with no trouble, if that is indeed where he hid them."

"It makes perfect sense," Artie was half-speaking to himself. "He would have assumed no one would find them there. They'd sink into the ooze and never resurface."

"Indeed," she replied. "One hour. We'll know soon enough."

They hung up without saying goodbye. They were above such time-wasting niceties.


	24. Chapter 24

Leena dozed lightly in the chair under the two-way mirror when Artie shuffled quietly down the corridor. He winced slightly when he caught sight of her, curled up with her head bent into her chest. She'd wake up with a crick in her neck, no question. He felt guilty. He'd left her there over five hours ago, too distracted by Claudia's discovery to send Leena an update. Or relieve her from guard duty, at the very least. Now, he touched her shoulder, looking into the mirror and noting with surprise Myka and Pete snuggled in the same chair.

"What happened?" Artie asked, hearing Leena inhale sharply at his touch. "How did she escape?"

As he suspected, Leena raised her head gingerly, rubbing her neck, working out the ache. "She didn't," she replied softly. "I let her out of her cuffs."

He looked down quickly at her. "What the hell for?"

Leena tipped her chin up, grunting at the pain in her vertebra. "I had to, Artie," she explained. "They were killing themselves. And you said you weren't going to interrogate them. It was inhumane to just leave them like-" Leena stopped short.

A briefcase hung from Artie's other hand. Slick with algae and muck, she could just make out its silver color beneath. Her gaze traveled back to his. "You found them." It wasn't a question.

Artie nodded. "Pete threw them in the swamp. The ops team found it twenty minutes into the search. The plane just landed. We have them."

Leena sighed heavily and stood up, turning so she could look into the room. Myka had taken Pete's advice and gotten dressed again. She was sitting, as Leena knew she would be, on Pete's lap, her forehead tipped into his, their eyes locked together in a world all their own. Leena, old soul that she was, felt no discomfort at hearing their lovemaking a few hours earlier. She'd known it would happen the moment she released Myka from her cuffs. Not that it mattered. Not to her, anyway. Artie might have argued that she was compounding the situation and making it worse for their agents once they were cured, but she disagreed. The agents loved each other. That much had been clear for quite a while now. And right now, they needed each other. They _needed _that intimacy. She personally believed that the physical act of love was as natural as breathing, and while she had no interest in voyeurism, she didn't mind overhearing if they didn't mind oversharing. Clearly they didn't. So she tucked the encounter away, never to be spoken of again.

Looking at the case again, she bit her lip. "Have mercy," she whispered to her friend. "Don't let them see it coming."

Artie swallowed, allowing his fear to surface in front of her. "How?"

"Wait until they're asleep."

He shook his head. "Can't. Mrs. Frederic ordered that they be cut immediately. She's expecting my call in twenty minutes to confirm the deed is done."

Leena huffed in frustration. "They need more time," she pleaded for her friends. "Just a little more time."

Artie shook his head again. "This never should have happened, Leena. The time they've had is already too much."

"But they're in _love_."

Artie used Leena's now vacant seat to set down the case and open it. Filthy water spewed from both sides and soaked the Turkish rug beneath their feet. Heedless, Artie pulled one of the two sodden quivers out and pulled an arrow from it. Gold. He cursed it under his breath and resheathed it, grabbing the second quiver and pulling another arrow. Lead. He clutched in his fist, though not hard enough to crack the warped shaft.

"They can stay in love," he murmured, turning to her and standing up straight. "But they have to do it sober."

He looked with uncertainty into the room again. "How am I going to do this with Myka uncuffed?" There was a note of accusation in his voice.

Leena gently pried the arrow from his hand, mindful of the tip, and held it by her side in such a way that her arm hid all of it, save the head, which protruded just under her fingers. "I'll go. They hate you right now. Myka will snap your neck."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. Stepping around him quickly, she opened the door and sauntered causally into the room. Artie watched, his chest tight with fear. Myka and Pete turned at the sound of the door opening and eyed Leena as she approached them. Myka didn't move from her position. She simply watched as the woman who had allowed her to be with Pete walked up to them as if to tell them something important.

Leena's arm rose, as if to whisper to them, knowing the warehouse was always listening and a hushed whisper behind a hand would help keep her secret.

The red slice appeared on Myka's cheek out of nowhere. Artie didn't even see it happen. Pete's neck bore a similar mark a split second later. Neither of his agents even registered what happened right away.

A whisper Artie could just make out. "I love you both. I'm sorry."

Leena was crossing the room and back in the corridor, sliding up next to him, the arrow held carefully out to him. "Here."

He didn't take it. It had all happened so fast that he was still processing. He watched in fascination as Pete and Myka stared wide-eyed at each other's injuries. Pete nosed at her cheek gently while Myka's fingers pressed into his bleeding throat. Their breathing was becoming labored. Twin flashes of yellowish light shot from their wounds and Myka moaned as it seeped through her fingers against Pete's skin.

"No," she pleaded softly, raising her fingers and noting with misery that his cut had healed. Pete grunted in fury as Myka's blood disappeared and her cheek as soft and healthy as he'd ever seen it.

"Baby," the word sounded desperate and begging. "Oh Jesus, My. How am I...?" He didn't finish. He spat a harsh choking sound and buried his face against her shoulder.

Myka gripped his head and lowered her face next to his. "I feel it," she moaned against him. "It's coming."

"Don't let go," he pleaded. "Don't leave me."

Leena and Artie watched as the two shivered and sickened slightly, the lead arrow causing vertigo to tumble through their blood, along with all of their restored worries and emotional barriers. The fear of losing each other quickly lost ground to the thousands of other fears that inhabited their daily lives. Fears like they shouldn't get involved with their partner. Fears like they'd failed in their job and let their team down. Fears like _oh, god they've seen each other naked. A _lot _naked. _

Myka's eyes squeezed shut as she relived the last day. The smell of the hotel bed. The taste of Pete's skin. The surprisingly heavy weight of his body. His voice. His words. His proud roars as she came apart in his arms. His like of sexual rough-housing. His achingly sweet tenderness when he held her every second they were together. And she had begged for more. There had never been enough of him. She'd gone wild and thoughtless and stupid under his enthralling touch and wanted to enslave herself to him forever. She told him as much. She'd screamed as much. And when her mouth had been busy sucking him senseless, she'd thought to him as much. After so much time trying to protect herself from such blatant self-destruction, she'd tossed herself over a cliff, the arrow telling her that Pete would catch her. Always, Pete will catch her.

But you can't trust someone will always catch you. Sooner or later, they'll miss. They'll miss and you'll splatter. Self-reliance was the only way to preserve yourself. What she'd given to Pete..._oh, god_...what had she given of herself to Pete?

Her love for him, so pure and uninhibited while under the influence of the arrow, splintered with horror.

What had she done? _Dear God, what had she done?_

"No," she whispered again. _No no no no no no no!_

Pete didn't hear her. Pressed tightly into her collarbone, Pete shuddered with the Technicolor memory of them together, twisting with ecstasy. He remembered how their link allowed their thoughts to melt together in bliss as their bodies buckled under the pleasure. He'd been hard with her. He'd been rough with her. He'd spread her exhausted body under his and had taken her without so much as a 'please'. He had barely let her sleep. He hadn't let her eat. He remembered warning her about fucking her until he killed them both and damn if that wasn't almost what happened. Sweet, adorable Myka. Her mind was so strong and lively, her body so soft and pliant. She was so precious, so valuable to him that it defied description. And he'd fucked her like the savage addict that he was. Slobbering, sweating, overbearing, insatiable bastard that he was. In a hotel, no less. While on assignment, no less.

Pete groaned and fought his cuffs again, his hands twitching to pull Myka closer and push her away at the same time. He needed her. He didn't deserve her. He loved her. He'd probably hurt her. His desires and fears pushed and pulled at him, forcing another groan from him as misery and guilt overwhelmed him.

"Pete..."

"Myka, I'm...sorry..." he panted, disorientation almost blinding him. "I never meant...to..."

"No," she interrupted him. He could feel her tensing on top of him. Suddenly the woman who fit him like a key went rigid. He felt their link disintegrate as their emotional walls went up, one after the other. He no longer felt her existing in his head, just her residual panic as she retreated from their connection. Their synchronicity vanished. Their closeness felt unnatural. Suddenly she was up and out of his lap. He cracked his eyes open in time to see her stumble away from him, her legs rubbery and unable to support her. She fell to the floor, facing him warily.

"No," she repeated, staring at him as if he were a menacing stranger. Her bottom lip trembled. She pushed herself away from him, her legs shoving her along the ground, her hands reaching back and vaulting her. She reached the door, putting cracks in his heart with every inch she put between them.

"My," he called desperately, fighting the chair that held him in place. "Please. Baby, I-"

Her head shot up and her eyes went wide with terror. "_No_."


	25. Chapter 25

She ran.

Deep down, it didn't surprise anyone.

After the nausea subsided, Myka yanked the door open and bolted down the corridor over Pete's screaming pleas for her to stay. She nearly knocked Artie and Leena over as she ran by them.

"Myka," Leena began, taking a step towards the stumbling woman.

"Don't," Myka groaned as she righted and continued to move down the hall. "Just leave me alone."

Her friends stood in mute frustration as she disappeared from sight.

They let her go. It wasn't their instinct to, but God knows how much she had to process. They gave her the space to do so.

Turning back to the mirror, they gazed at Pete. He was no longer screaming for Myka. He'd gone limp in the chair, his head hanging pitifully against his chest. It shook back and forth slowly, a dull murmur falling from his lips. Leena ached as she took in the broken man in that room. His aura, so shockingly white just moments before, was now such a dark blue that it was almost black. There was a reason sadness was called the Blues. Dark blue auras hovered only around the miserable. And Pete's aura was so dark that it rivaled Myka's, which had been muddy violet in color as she'd run by the reader.

Wordlessly, she fished her keys from her pocket again and moved towards to door.

"What are you doing?" Artie asked.

Leena appraised him sadly. "He's still cuffed. Did you plan on leaving him in there?"

Artie quickly glanced at Pete again, the surprise in his features told Leena that the lovable scatterbrain had forgotten that he couldn't move. He glanced back at her. "Should we wait longer? I don't know how long the inoculation takes."

Leena eyed him with tired patience. "You're a good man, Artie, but you're often cruel."

She left him and entered the door that Myka had just exited. Silently, she approached Pete, knelt at his feet, and cupped his cheek in her hand. "Hey, stranger," she greeted softly.

Pete didn't raise his head. He merely nuzzled into her hand and sniffed loudly. "Leena," he greeted back. "Oh Christ, what have I done to her?"

"Sshhhh," she hushed soothingly. "Nothing. You did nothing wrong, Pete. You made her happier than she's ever been in her life."

He barked an angry laugh and shook against her fingers. "Didn't," he mumbled. "I fucked it up. I fucked _her_ up. The things I said...the things I did-" he cut off again and moaned.

Leena cupped his other cheek and made him look at her. The pain in his warm brown eyes made her _own_ aura darken a bit. She held his gaze firmly. "Think about her words, Pete. Think about the things she did to _you_. Remember her expressions when she touched you. Remember she wouldn't leave your side." She gave him a watery smile. She hadn't witnessed any of their private moments, but she knew perfectly well what lovers said to each other. She watched his self-loathing soften at the memories. "Remember she loves you. She has for a long time."

He smiled brokenly, tears shimmering. "She ran," he said bleakly.

Reaching down behind him, she slipped her key into one cuff without breaking eye contact. "She's Myka," she replied gently. One hand freed, she moved the key to the other cuff. It fell open and Pete was finally liberated after over seventeen hours of restraint. With the gold arrow's effects wiped from his blood, his injuries now screamed and he winced as he brought his bruised arms forward. His shoulder sockets were wrenched and his upper biceps bloody. Leena caught his sore wrists and massaged them carefully. "So catch her, Pete."

He clenched his jaw and hissed at her ministrations. Confusion swam in his eyes. "How can I fix this?"

Leena bit her lower lip. Now was not the time to broach a rather important subject. Instead, she merely smiled. "Go talk to her."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She ran all the way back to the B&B. The approaching dawn gave her just enough light to sprint and not worry about rocks or uneven ground. She ran the two miles without slowing, gasping harsh gulps of air as tears leaked from her eyes and streaked to her ears. She felt the burn of oxygen deprivation in her thigh muscles. She simply ran harder. The burn intensified and she was glad. Pain was a welcome sensation. It saved her from thinking about anything else.

_Pete_

She stifled the thought of him, but he kept resurfacing. She couldn't banish the many gazes he'd lavish on her in the last two days. Deep brown eyes, conveying so much emotion that it stole her breath. The shy appreciation before the arrow. The dark, starving desire after. The lustful aggression. The carnivorous satisfaction. The orgasmic fury. Then the soft, post-coital tenderness. And then...

Myka moaned and picked up her speed, trying to outrun the final gaze that chased her just behind her eyes.

The pain. The abandonment. The insecurity. The terror.

The look on Pete's face when she'd thrown herself off of him had seared itself into her mind. He'd begged her - chained and struggling - not to leave him. He'd screamed her name, eyes pleading that she stay.

But it had been too much. The nausea, the room, the chain chairs, the observation window, the people watching on the other side, the people listening (probably) to their lovemaking, the public knowledge of everything that had happened...and the eyes. The eyes of her partner awash with fear.

Her fearlessness had emptied as surely as if the lead arrow had opened a drain inside of her. One minute, Pete was enough for her and the rest of the situation could just fuck off. The next, she was her regular ball of nerves, caring what people thought, hoping for their good opinion, terrified of looking unprofessional, flat-out scared of romantic entanglements. All of those elements bore down on her now, so she did what any startled animal does when faced with multiple unpleasantries. She ran.

The house was close. Lungs scraped raw, she pulled another painful gulp of air and ran like the devil himself was chasing her. She vaulted the steps, throwing herself through the front door. Thank God everyone else was at the warehouse. She could tear up the stairs, across the landing and into her room with no one hearing the racket. She slammed her door behind her and locked it before throwing herself onto her bed, balling up tightly in the fetal position.

Safe at last, she allowed herself to sob.


	26. Chapter 26

It was a level of misery that Pete would never have believed existed.

He's left the warehouse, albeit with a lot less of a dramatic flair than Myka had. Limping out to the car, he eased himself into the seat, keying the ignition and letting the engine idle for a minute as he tried to find a comfortable way to sit.

Fuck, his arms hurt. His head hurt. His stomach was a ball of crumpled nerves. Those ninja bastards had really done a number on him. Every hit he'd taken felt like it had been shot from a cannon. He twisted his torso and whimpered. He shouldn't be driving, really. But he'd made it clear back there that company wasn't wanted. Not even Leena, with her quiet, understanding ways. He just wanted to be alone. Moreover, he wanted to be alone when he got to the house and found Myka. Battered body or not, he was going to talk to that woman and he didn't want an audience when he did it.

He put the car in gear and headed down the hill. Five minutes later, he threw it in park and eased out with the same tense care that he'd gotten in with. His ribs screeched in agony as his legs stretched towards the ground. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself out, slamming the door as if the car was responsible for his pain.

The house loomed before him, completely dark and devoid of life. He sucked in a breath and made himself walk before he had a chance to chicken out. Terror chipped at his resolve with every step. _What if he couldn't find her? God in heaven, what if he _did_ find her_? What was he going to say? What combination of words was going to get her back into his arms and make her feel safe and confident about their relationship now that all their cards were on the table, not to mention all of their clothes? Fright nipped him sharply. He didn't have a fuckin' clue. If he knew the right words, he would have sat himself down first and repeated them over and over before he'd come looking to explain them to her. He would have assured himself that the most wonderful woman in his life also happened to be the most astonishing fuck he'd ever had, and that this phenomenal combination meant that she was made for him. He would then assure himself with equal certainty that _he_ was made for _her_.

Pete pulled another breath that didn't seem to help steady his nerves.

That right there was the scariest notion of all. How could he convince her that _he_ was what she needed? How could he explain that he was the best man for her, out of all the men in the world who would clamor to be with her? Hell, he didn't really believe it himself. Look at him. He was an immature, lazy, antagonistic imbecile who used to hit the sauce. Myka was a classy, learned, playful, hot librarian/sex machine. As far as men went, all she'd ever have to do is line them up, then stand back and pick. Doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs. Hell, world leaders stood behind her as she squared off with assassins, ready to take a bullet. Pete would bet his pension that more than one member of the Presidential cabinet had stood behind her, knowing they should fear danger, but unable to stop themselves from checking out the fearless hottie with a tight ass and great hair in front of them. They were elected officials, not gods. Who could fault them for looking?

Pete didn't. He'd also done his fair share of looking before this last assignment. Now? He clicked his teeth as desire rose up in him, higher and higher with each of the stairs leading to the front door.

Pardon his French, but Myka was the sweetest, tightest little cocksucking angel that God ever saw fit to send to the world of mortals.

And he didn't deserve her.

Pressure spiked in his chest as the door opened under his shaking fingers. _What was he going to say?_

The stairs disappeared too quickly under his feet.

_What was _she_ going to say?_

He was in front of her door way too soon.

_How would he survive a rejection?_

His knock sounded deafening in the empty hallway. There was no answer. He waited a few seconds before trying again. Softly, but with more taps. More silence. He wondered if he should call out.

Suddenly, he felt a slight tingling sensation behind his eyes. It was so rife with questioning and fear that he didn't recognize it at first. He wondered briefly if he was having a vibe, but quickly dismissed the idea. It felt too..._other._..to be something that his subconscious manufactured. But the he felt a trickle of curiosity behind the fear and his uncertainty vanished. Myka. Myka was pressing into the door with her gloriously curious mind, trying to see who was invading her miserable solitude.

Desperate, Pete pressed back timidly. _Myka? Can you feel me? If you can, say my name. Please..._

He felt her panicked backpedaling for a split second. He felt her shock at finding him. She was using her new vibe, hoping to encounter nothing on the other side and thus discerning that someone without their link - Artie or Claw or Leena - wanted to talk to her. He could tell she was ready to call out to one of them. To let them in or politely ask them to leave, he wasn't sure. But she did _not_ want _him_ there, of that he had no doubt.

_Please! _he wailed into their space. _Don't leave me again! Talk to me, baby. Lemme hear you. _

He felt her hesitate at his tone. Slowly, she crept back into his mind.

_Pete..._

He gasped audibly and leaned into the door, sagging with relief. _Hi, sunshine. _

The link was weak and thready. What had been so effortless and strong with their fearless and enamored minds was now clouded with the static of their fears. Pete worked hard to keep it as open as possible, pushing his terror aside and filling that space with his love and pleas for her affection. Standing outside of her door, he wanted nothing more than to throw it open, climb into her bed, wrap her body around his and just sink into the healing power of her warmth and nurturing touch. His entire body throbbed at the scenario, his injuries all but begging him to convalesce in exactly that fashion. The image was so real that he whimpered. He was just like that damn neighbor dog all those years ago, injured and hurting and wanting nothing more than to limp home to his owner.

He didn't mean for it to, but his fantasy poured into their link, his dizzying need for her coming at her in 3D Widescreen.

He heard her gasp behind the door. He pressed himself harder into the wood. Christ, how many times was he going to plead with her behind locked doors?

_Pete, I'm sorry._

He winced. He could feel her sorrow at refusing to open the door to him. _My, we need to talk. You can't hide in there forever. Please, can I come in? Forget about what you just saw, I promise I won't try anything. I just... _ The image of her comforting him physically again popped up and he angrily smothered it. _ I just need you. I need your face. Please? _

Another stubborn push rebuffed him. _Pete, please just leave me alone. I need to think. I can't do that with you in the hallway. I...I just... _ She retreated again from their link, her emotions getting too strong and she didn't want him to feel them. _ ...just let me think. _

_We knew this would happen. _He argued dejectedly. _You told me you'd run. Remember? You told me not to let you. And you damn well know why. You love me, My. You love me so much that you gave yourself to me in every possible way. And I'm here to collect. __I want every little sigh, every annoying argument, every whisper of my name, every curly hair on your head, every single goddamn brilliant thought in your mind. They're mine, baby. Just like I'm yours. Every miserable inch of me. All yours. _

He hadn't meant to deluge her delicate state of mind with so much aggressive possession, but once he'd started thinking it, he couldn't stop. Perhaps it was a mistake to talk to her mentally. He had less control. Thoughts and emotions sprang up before he could censor them. And as a man, he was the first to admit that every thought he had about them featured them bound to each other physically. The emotions themselves ranged from comfort to silliness to sadness to manic ecstasy, but regardless of which Myka chose to zoom in on, she found the same notion of them touching. She felt Pete thinking about them walking into Univille holding hands, just talking. She felt them playing footsie as they read the paper over breakfast. She felt his happiness at the idea of wrestling on his bed, his weight and prowess at the sport making her an easy adversary. She also felt his melting sweetness when, in that scenario, he simply let her win. She felt how turned on their past fights had made him, and his eager anticipation and starting new ones where he was allowed to finish them by dragging her to the floor and kissing her to defeat. She gasped at his memory of the night they watched _Jaws _the night she'd been attacked. She felt his desire to pull her close and slide him palms over her arms and back, reassuring her after a long, scary day. She felt that desire as it had battled with propriety. He hadn't allowed himself to because he hadn't had the right to touch her that way. And a few hours further into that memory, she felt his shocked delight as she delivered a blowjob and knocked his socks off, almost equal to the delight of kissing her savagely right after.

His fantasies and memories all jumbled together and knocked the wind out of her with their intensity, all of them proving something that she'd known very early on. Pete liked being touched.

She shivered and burrowed deep into her bed, looking for an escape route in the fitted sheet and mattress. _It's too much, Pete. You're too much._

He shuddered. He'd heard those words before, but in a much better circumstance.

_Let me be, Pete. Let me work it out for myself._

Grunting into the door, Pete brought his fist up as if to hit it, but only settled it tightly against the cool surface. He pulled several breaths through his nose, fighting to stay calm. _Please..._

_Go! Go now. _

He roared in frustration and yanked himself away from her room. Without another word, he turned down the steps and fled. Bursting out the front door, he fumbled for the keys.

His body wailed in pain as he dragged it into the driver seat again, but much like his arrowed state, he no longer gave a shit.

Right now, he was heading to the one other source that would deaden that pain. If Myka wasn't going to cure it, then he knew a place where he could damn well drown it.


	27. Chapter 27

Hours later, it was Leena who finally persuaded her to open the door.

Well, persuaded wasn't entirely accurate. More like didn't object when Leena quietly keyed her lock with her master set and entered Myka's room without asking. The reader sat on the bed, looking over the lump in the sheets and tsking her gently for her cowardice.

"Myka," she cooed her friend's name, reaching out and running her hand along the covered curve of her back. "Come on out here and talk to me."

The lump shook negatively. "No," it stubbornly refused.

Leena sighed, locating the agent's ribs before poking none too gently. "Get your ass out here, Myka. We need to talk about something. It's important."

Myka flinched and huffed at the prod. With bad grace, she flipped the covers off and gazed at her friend from her fetal position on the mattress. "Leena, I love you, but get out. I get that you want to help, but believe me, I don't need it. I just want to be alone."

Leena's eyes narrowed angrily. She sat up straighter and crossed her arms aggressively, leaning down to Myka's face. "Tough shit," she said softly.

Myka made a strange, barking snort of laughter. Since when did Leena swear? "What?"

"You heard me," the reader clipped. "You've had some time. You've wallowed sufficiently. Now it's time to be a big girl and go talk to the man you're in love with."

Myka looked away, shutting her eyes against the words. "It's more complicated than that."

With her eyes shut, she didn't see Leena's gaze drift down to her belly. "You have no idea," Leena's tone suddenly went kind.

Myka sighed and fell back in defeat, her body opening up, her defensiveness suddenly draining out of her. "Shit, Leena. What am I supposed to do now?" She looked over at her friend as she perched on the bed. "I mean, seriously. I got mojo'd by an artifact and ended up fucking Pete Lattimer. I fucked my _partner_. Again! But it's worse than that!" She moaned miserably. "I...I didn't just...I mean...we...we were just so..."

"You didn't fuck him," Leena interrupted.

Myka surprised her with a sheepish, knowing smile. "Oh, I fucked him all right."

"No," Leena smiled back. "I mean it wasn't as easy as that. Anyone can fuck. What you and Pete did was made love. Real love."

"_Not _real," Myka argued. "Made-up, artifact, bullshit, make-believe love. It never would have happened if it weren't for that stupid arrow. Now everything I had with Pete before is ruined. Ruined, Leena! My partner, my best friend, my-"

"Lover?" Leena supplied helpfully.

Myka rolled her eyes. "You know we weren't."

Leena shrugged. "Not physically. But emotionally, Pete has belonged to you for a very long time. He'd follow you anywhere. He'd give you anything. He already has."

Myka groaned, not wanting to accept the truth of her words. They were evil words, instantly conjuring Pete's face and hands and voice. They caressed her softly, the scratch of his calloused palms and sandpapery stubble lighting fires everywhere they touched. He smiled. He chuckled. He pulled her close and rubbed himself against her like the most affectionate kitty cat. She kissed his throat and felt him growl in encouragement, only to feel his pulse - _their _pulse - throbbing steadily once the growl died away.

That could be her life. Every day, she could wake up in his arms, work with him in the warehouse, hug him when she felt lonely, strip him when she felt naughty, confide every secret to him knowing that after the requisite jokes, he'd cuddle her close and promise never to repeat them. She could have Pete. Even in his injured, inoculated state, he'd made that clear. And how easy would it be to return the favor? After all, they were connected on so many levels as it was. Pete wasn't some guy she'd picked up in a coffee bar after he'd made charming chitchat about the weather. This was the man that she had a startling amount of information about. Peter Lattimer: Born June 7th, 1970. Father deceased. One sister, deaf. Secret Service agent. Lip reader. Owner of a supernatural 'sixth sense'. Wise ass. 5'11". Dark hair, dark eyes. 195lbs. Former wrestler. Turns red at singlet jokes about said wrestling. Intuitive. Kind. Dartmouth Honors graduate, 1993. Strong. Funny. Possessive and intense in bed. Excellent people skills. Silly. Wonderful.

Leena watched as her words churned Myka's aura into several different - though sad - colors, each reflecting a different emotional range. Oblivious, Myka covered her eyes with her hands, her top lifting away from her stomach as she did so. Leena's gasp brought them down again as she peeked at her friend's awed expression.

Myka frowned. "What?"

Leena, who was starting avidly at Myka's exposed belly, quickly looked back at her friend. She looked...well, nervous. But amazed at the same time. She watched as Leena bit her lip, obviously wanting to say something. Myka cocked a brow at her. "Hello?"

Leena swallowed, exhaling shakily. Myka jolted as she reached out and gently traced the skin of her stomach. "Leena? What...?"

The reader smiled. It was an ancient smile - the smile of an older sister. Of a mother. Of a tribal elder. When her dark finger traced the dip of her pale bellybutton, a strange, tingling sensation pulsed through Myka as her friend spoke. "She's going to be so beautiful."

Myka squinted at the woman who continued to caress her lower belly.

"She'll have your hair," Leena said dreamily.

Myka gasped.

Leena looked up quickly, but the dreamy quality of her expression didn't change. "But Pete's eyes."

"Leena?" she didn't recognize her own voice. It sounded so small and frightened. The reader didn't notice. She was too busy starting at her body. When Leena's index finger paused just above her hip, she sighed happily. "Pete will call her Button. But you?" Leena pinned her with that ancient, knowing certainty. "You'll teasingly call her Cupid."

"Leena." The force in Myka's voice seemed to shake the other woman somewhat. She blinked profusely, lifting her hands from her friend and leaning back to a more appropriate distance. When she spoke, her voice was firm, the dreamy quality gone. "You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and go find Pete. Right now."

Myka stared at the woman, aghast. "What are you seeing?" she demanded in a whispered scream. Her hands instinctively went to her own tummy, her palms warming her skin. "What are you talking about?"

Leena eyed her like she was an idiot. "Go. Find. Pete. I'm not going to say it again."

Myka didn't move. "What _the hell_ are you talking about Leena?" Her panicked gaze shot down to her own stomach, desperate to see what her friend saw. "What do you _see_?"

Leena huffed in exasperation and tugged Myka's hand, pulling her up and out of bed. She dragged the agent in front of her full-length mirror, standing behind her with her head peeking out behind Myka's shoulder. Myka watched as Leena's hands hovered above her head and slowly made an outline around the agent's taller frame. "This is you," Leena indicated, her hands dancing four inches away from her. "And you're all manner of miserable. Dark purple, mostly, but some blues and grays. It's painful to look at. But here?" Myka felt tears build in her eyes as the reader's hands slid around her slender waist and settled on her belly. "Here? God, Myka. You're so unbelievably beautiful right here."

Myka broke and gave a strangled sob as Leena caressed her unborn child. A girl, if Leena's predictions were correct. Myka saw nothing. It suddenly destroyed her, not being able to see what Leena saw. "What does she look like?" she asked, her voice quivering with tears.

Leena grinned wide. "Her aura is the same as any baby's," she explained wisely. "Babies are love itself, Myka. That's why your daughter's aura is gold."


	28. Chapter 28

There weren't many bars to choose from in Univille, so when Pete rolled into town, he simply chose the closest.

Wandering into its dim, smoky atmosphere, he felt an uneasy sense of familiarity wash over him. He'd been here before. Maybe not this exact bar, but hey. When it came to looking for a drink, all bars morphed into the same place. And he'd been here, standing inside the door and ignoring his conscience. It was telling him that he knew better than this. It was telling him that that last eight years of sobriety will have been for nothing. It was reminding him about the walk of shame he'd endure at his next AA meeting, where he'd have to confess his slip-up. There was an even bigger walk of shame involving the warehouse. Artie. Leena. Cute lil' Claw. And of course...

He grunted and made himself walk in. Pulling out his wallet, he gestured to the older man behind the bar. The place was quiet, just one other local knocking back a Bud before he went into work. Early morning was always the time to find the folks who drank more than socially. They were the only ones still in the bar, their buddies having gone home to their wives hours ago. Pete ignored the other sauce hound and simply pointed to a bottle of Jack.

"Pour a double. Neat. And leave the bottle." He tented a fifty on the table.

The bartender eyed him evenly as he reached for the Jack. His ancient gaze registered a young man about to fall off the wagon. Pete's downturned eyes and hunched-up self-loathing made him an easy read. A drunk wouldn't care and would meet the old man's stare. And a social drinker wouldn't even be here. That left a sober, soon not to be.

"Sure," he answered quietly. He'd been around too long. Interfering never helped men like Pete. He poured the drink and set the bottle down carefully. He straightened the fifty and leaned back to the till, fingering out his change.

Pete waved at him. "Keep it," he barked dismissively, staring down the shot in front of him, almost like he hoped it would blink first.

The man nodded and closed the register. Pete could feel his eyes on him, but not his judgment. He felt grateful for that, at the very least.

The man tipped his chin slightly and offered the only adage that ever gave him a dime's worth of comfort. "This too shall pass, man."

He slowly walked back to the other end of the bar. His morning paper had been delivered. He settled into a stool and opened it wide on the bar. He could do no more and he knew it. He skipped to the sports section and disappeared into his reading.

Pete sat. Staring.

He knew his fifty would buy him at least an hour or two to just sit there quietly. The peace of the place lapped at him gently, while the shot in front of him loomed like bad medicine. His mouth filled with the bitter taste of unhappy expectation. He put his elbows on the bar, wincing as his shoulders popped and the dried blood on his biceps caught unpleasantly on the inside of his coat sleeves. He was a mess. He should be at home in bed, letting Leena make him soup and put DVDs into the awesome entertainment system that Myka had given...

He fisted his hands tightly. _Goddammit!_

That goddamn name. _Couldn't it leave him alone for five fucking seconds?__  
_

The shot called to him, reminding him that he didn't _have_ to remember her name if he didn't want to. Just like he didn't _have_ to feel the pain of his bruised body. The shot could take him somewhere fuzzy and warm, a million miles away from this clusterfuck. It could make him forget. It could make him numb. It could do so many things, and all he had to do was pluck it off that dented, tired old piece of maple and pound it back. Followed by another. And another. And another until that bottle was dry and he was seeing double.

His thumb tapped slowly, quietly on the bar.

He let his eyes drill that glass of amber liquid until they lost focus. He let his mind wander. With a deep sigh, he let himself remember.

_Dark hazel green eyes. Full lips that bloomed into a knockout girl-next-door smile. Long, silky legs that slid sensually against his. His name murmured in so many different ways: surprise, happiness, playfulness, pretend outrage, bone-deep satisfaction. _He smiled a little. Oh, yeah. Despite everything or anything that happened from here on out, Pete felt damn proud knowing that he was equal to the task for pleasing Myka Bering until she passed out sobbing in his arms. He hadn't just boned her like some average, macho dick who secretly felt threatened by her braininess. He'd bent over backwards to make sure she was _enjoying_ him just as much as he enjoyed her. But more than that, _she _was a perfect match for him. She attacked him like she was starved for his touch. She crashed into him and kept the pace with a sexual madman. She wasn't afraid of his strength. She wasn't turned off by his manic enthusiasm. She was addicted to his body. And she had been delighted by the emotional bond they forged in their short time together.

Myka.

Jesus Christ. The bartender had no idea what he was talking about. How the hell could he ever pass beyond her? Even pretend for a minute that he could ever move on? He'd known the minute he'd put his hands on her, there was no getting over her. There was no recovering from her. She was poison. And, ironically, she was a cure-all. The best he could hope for was a life at her side at all times. A life where he was allowed to nuzzle her ear in just the right way, any time he liked. A life where they traded their separate rooms at the B&B for a master suite, the one where there isn't enough room for his entertainment system _and_ her books and they'd have to argue deliciously for hours about who should get the limited shelf space. A life where Myka spoils him rotten with her better-than-a-million-Oreos hugs, the ones where her breasts press softly against him as she pets him down his back just to hear him purr. A life where he can tell her every day, every hour, that he loves her, and stops getting heartburn from the words left unsaid in his throat.

These things, they might save him. If he had them, uninterrupted, for the rest of his natural life, then it _might_ be enough. If he was able to mainline Myka day and night, grow old alongside her and fat off of her hugs, then he might just make it through life in one piece.

But he didn't.

Pete snorted and pushed the shot closer to his hunched body with his index finger. He didn't have her hugs. He didn't share her room, never mind her bed. He couldn't push her hair back and neck her like crazy, turning her sassy, well-structured arguments into kitten-like mewls of pleasure as she leaned helplessly into his chest, wordless cursing him for making her want him when she was trying so hard to win their fight. She wouldn't read to him at night as they snuggled deep under the blankets on snowy nights. And never, ever, _ever_ would he slide into that impossibly perfect body again. Her heat, her slippery, clenching perfection, her soft stranglehold around his neck as she quaked around him, oh, the tremble of her thighs and incoherent sobs. Her eyes. God damn the loveliness of her eyes.

Pete shivered. His unattended body felt clammy in the early morning chill. And his memories were torturing it further, he could almost hear his muscles whimpering like kicked dogs. The individual pieces of him weren't sure what he'd done to fuck everything up, but they did know that they wouldn't be happy until a certain soft, supple pair of hands coasted over them and made them warm again.

They were in for a long fuckin' wait. Pete looked at the bottom of the shot under his nose. He could see the warped texture of the bar through the whiskey. The smell of cheap peat filled his nose. He wrinkled his nose, suddenly hating it. The drink in front of him, whatever it had done for him in the past, wasn't going to help him now. He'd ruined the one good and pure relationship in his life. Getting drunk and staggering home to her would torch it completely. He'd already fucked himself by fucking her when she wasn't of sound mind. Was he seriously thinking about getting drunk? Jesus. As low as her opinion must be of him right now, what would she think if she could see him now?

"Pete?"

His head shot up and he turned. His blood ran cold and froze in his veins. Fear stabbed him in the heart, robbing him of oxygen. He gasped and didn't get a single molecule. "My?"

She was standing in the door frame, her hand holding it open and letting the dawn light her up from behind. Her outrageously gorgeous silhouette dipped and curved, from her curly hair, to her full breasts, into her slim waist and down her insanely hot legs. She'd put a wrap sweater on over her tank top, the same one she'd been dressed in during their abduction. Her voice had been soft...and appalled. Her eyes were liquid pools of disbelief. He watched as her lower lip trembled as she confirmed the worst about his whereabouts. She might have hidden from him in her bed like a little girl, but the look on her face told him that _his_ preferred method of coping was a shocking example of bitch-not-cool.

"Oh, my god," she whispered softly, her head dropping low as tears filled those ridiculously pretty eyes.

"No, My. This isn't what-"

But she didn't hear him. Marching straight up to the bar, she didn't even look at him and she picked up the shot in front of him and hurled it against the wall. The little glass shattered in dozens of pieces, startling Pete and the bartender at the other end, who looked up in amazement.

Myka turned to the owner shakily. "I'm sorry. But don't ever serve this man ever again."

Grabbing the bottle of Jack from the bar, she whirled and stomped back out the door, leaving a terrified Pete in her wake. Stunned by her display of hurt anger, it took three seconds to make his legs work and run after her.

"Myka!" he called hoarsely, tearing through the door and out into the street. A strange, beautiful pinkish gold light was filtering down the sleeping street. It was still too early for most. Myka was pacing in the middle of it, the bottle hanging limply from her hand as she walked the double yellow line on the asphalt.

Pete stood on the blacktop, watching her with desperate and worried eyes. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wanting to touch her, to grab her and smother her with kisses while he begged for forgiveness and assured her he hadn't touched a drop. She looked so miserable. So defeated. She turned back towards him and retraced her steps over the yellow paint.

Without looking at him, she rattled the bottle slightly in her hand. The liquid shook against the glass. "Are you _kidding_ me with this?" she asked hopelessly. "I ask you for time to think and _this _is where I find you?"

He gestured helplessly, not knowing what to do with his hands except cup her face. But he didn't. "Myka, please. Just let me-"

"Let you what? Explain?" she spat the word angrily. She held the bottle between them and shook it harder. Tears slid freely down her cheeks and Pete groaned as he watched them. "How could you do this, Pete?"

"You_ left _me!" he wailed at her, throwing his arms up and roaring. "You ran. You _goddamn_ ran, My! You promised! You said you'd try so hard not to! But you did! You looked at me like a fucking rapist and you ran from me!" He made a sound of acute frustration and palmed his temples. "So I ran, too."

She sniffed, her anger pulling back a bit. "I ran home," she whimpered brokenly. "_Our_ home. If I'd known that..." she looked at the bottle again, "...that _this_ was where you'd go..."

"I needed you," he gritted harshly. "Goddammit, I'm in pain and I'm scared and I needed you, but you wouldn't see me. You wouldn't even look at me!" His mind screamed, forgetting she could hear it. _I love you! Stupid, sick in love, remember? And I...I..._

The sensation of their passionate coupling filled her mind and she gasped raggedly at Pete's agony. He felt horrible. He felt responsible. He felt insane ecstasy and guilt for enjoying it. He felt lovesick and terrified and, yes, he felt like a rapist.

Myka couldn't bear it. Her love for him, her consent for him, instantly rose in her own mind. She pushed it towards him, showing him that she had wanted it. Mindless of everything except giving him comfort, she conjured her own memories. The thrill of his power. The delirious acceptance of his love as they writhed in the sheets. The pure, disgusting happiness of just being with him, no matter what the circumstance. Nothing in her memories of Pete, before or after the arrows, had ever been anything but annoyance, silliness, flirtation, contentment, and now love. Stupid, sick in love.

She watched as his eyes widened with the overwhelming blast of her feelings. He took a step back, steadying himself. His eyes went black with stimulation, the intensity of her pleasure making him react in the most primal way.

Without breaking eye contact, Myka lifted the bottle to her lips and took a deep pull of whiskey. Moving it thoroughly around her mouth, she broke her gaze and spat the burning mouthful onto the street. The bottle followed, arcing high and smashing into diamond chips at her feet. She looked back at his shocked expression. The burn of whiskey brought more tears to her eyes as she took three steps and ended up right in front of him. Her mind could still read the pain in his arms, so her hands rested on his cheeks.

"This is the only way you're ever tasting alcohol again." She brought his lips to hers and kissed him gently. Whiskey and the essence of Myka pressed into his mouth and Pete moaned harshly and gripped her hard around the waist, crushing her to him as he deepened their kiss into breathless, tonguing desperation. His eyes rolled up under his lids. His mind purred her name wildly. And when he pulled away, she followed, not wanting to lose him, not even for three inches.

He smiled wanly. "Spit," he said gruffly.

She squinted. His smile warmed with her questioning gaze. He thumbed her cheeks, adoring how she was so soft that it should be illegal, and kissed her nose. "I don't want alcohol. I want you. Spit that shit out and lemme taste you."

The combination of hard liquor and brown sugar, the signature Jack taste, did nothing for him. On the contrary, it was in the way. Myka was kissing him, giving him back her lips and tongue and perfect, bossy mouth and anything else involved was just a contaminant. Her taste was obscured. He watched with pleasure as she turned her head and spat coquettishly over her shoulder. Sucking her cheeks in, she swallowed as much of the stuff as she could, flashing her teeth when she was done. "All better?"

He finally allowed himself to grin. "Let's see."

His kiss started slow, reacquainting himself with her. Oh, fuck him sideways she tasted magnificent. Pete let his hands coast over her timidly. Myka nodded into the kiss, murmuring her approval, and kissed him even deeper as he cupped her ass.

"Yes," she breathed longingly. "Oh, god, you feel good."

"Put your hands on me," he rasped against her lips.

Myka made some womanly squeak of compliance and ran her hands everywhere she could reach. Through his hair, across his face, down his throat and chest, around and up his back. She avoided his arms and he melted, knowing she was feeling his pain.

"Take me home," he whispered through the heat of their kiss. "Take care of me. Let me take care of _you_."

"Yes," she sighed breathlessly.

"To bed," he specified, gripping her hips. "Together. No locking yourself away from me."

She shook against him. "No. No more running," she leaned back into his arms and smiled brokenly. "Either of us."

She sucked her cheeks again and turned to spit the minute amount of booze still clinging to her mouth.

Pete laughed softly. "I think you got it all. A couple drops won't kill ya."

She smiled knowingly and nestled against his shoulder, letting him support her as she cuddled close. "No, but I'm pretty sure whiskey isn't good for our baby."


	29. Chapter 29

However touchy-feely and loving Pete had been to Myka up to that point, it was a pale fraction of how close he stayed to her after she'd let slip her little secret. Still snuggled into his shoulder, she'd felt him seize up at her reasons for not swallowing that mouthful of whiskey. He was quiet for almost ten seconds, his hands stilling on her back as he waited for her to point both finger guns at him, grin wide, and say "Gotcha!"

Myka could hear his train of thought and smiled wide against his throat, not moving a muscle and not recanting.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I just hallucinated. Come again?"

Her fingers spider-crawled up his back as she giggled softly. "Baby," she repeated. "Whiskey isn't good for our _baby_."

Pete snorted violently in disbelief and Myka felt the need to pull back and face his incredulity head on. Brows raised high, she silently dared him to challenge her.

Staring back at her with his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes turned to ink, their intensity drilling into hers. He didn't call bullshit on her statement like she expected. Instead, she gasped as she felt him gopher savagely into her thoughts, his consciousness burrowing deep, rooting out her sincerity. Her brain felt like it was being exposed to sunlight for the first time, his mind raking it out into the light for his vigorous perusal. The memory of Leena's words were accessed remotely without her authorization. She felt Pete remembering it with her, pouring over Leena's every whispered word.

"A girl," Pete murmured as he watched the reader in her head. "With my eyes."

Myka felt too overwhelmed to speak. Pete was astonished. It was the most blinding thing she'd experienced since they'd discovered their link. Stunned happiness followed, filling his head and overflowing into hers. He fried her brain with his joy, short-circuiting her ability to make words. Instead, she loosened her hold on her thoughts, giving him room to look around. She watched him, no longer his playful self. He gripped her by the waist and planted his thumbs squarely over her flat belly. Tearing his eyes away from hers, he looked down, trying desperately to see what Leena had described. Myka felt his annoyance as, like her, he saw nothing. How could they? The baby inside her was less than two days old. There was nothing a normal human could detect so early on in a pregnancy.

"Not normal," Pete huffed at her thought, startling her with the realization that they were thinking openly to each other once again. His eyes flitted up to hers again, a determined light flashing in them as he pulled her closer. _I'm not a reader_, he thought to her, _but dammit, I'm still a supernatural Superbad. _

Myka chuckled as Pete shut his eyes tightly. He abandoned his attempts to read her aura and pushed solidly into her with his vibe. She closed her eyes as well, placing her hands over his on her stomach. Feeling him sink into her physical awareness once again, she chided him silently. _I can't feel her either, Pete. It's too soon._

_Hush_, he shushed her lovingly, his fingers dancing on her tummy under her hands. _Just let me work. _

She sighed out loud and stopped thinking, letting him rummage around as he liked. It was a fascinating experience. Pete was determined to get a read on their baby, somehow, but he was also being exceptionally careful as he maneuvered between her brain's output. His presence felt like cool gel moving around in her skull. He was searching through her physical state first. Just like in the plane, she allowed him to read the slight pain in her arms. Her weariness. Her slight hunger. Her cold fingers. He took the information gratefully, but stubbornly butted harder into her torso. She smiled blindly at him. _Fine_, she acquiesced. She exhaled softly and brought her forehead to rest against his. Still standing in the middle of a deserted street in a one-horse town, the two psychic agents flayed their minds open to each other in a rush of silence.

Pete pushed into the warmth of her womb and smiled back at her. He didn't sense anything unusual. As she'd said, it was too early for her body to register their handiwork. He huffed mentally, already impatient to feel his baby girl. But he could still read all of the other indicators that whispered to him via her very sated body. _You're still warm there_, he noted with an air of satisfaction. _Is it still from me being such a rockin' sex machine? _

Myka scrunched her nose and sank her nails warningly into his hands. _Shut up_, she rebuked jokingly. _You're such an egotistical jerk. _

_Is that any way for my baby momma to talk to me?_ he teased, leaning in to kiss her softly.

_Baby momma? I swear to god, I'm gonna smack you. _ She kissed him back, or at least tried to as they both kept smiling.

_Jeez Louise, My. Physical and verbal abuse and we just made up? I'm already doubting your parental abilities. I may have to take my Button and run away to Mexico. I can't have her around such a nutjob mommy.  
_

Myka stopped smiling and opened her eyes. "Button?"

Pete opened his and found her watching him with wide, surprised eyes. He grinned and pushed on of his thumbs into her navel, through her shirt. "Yeah, Button. Geddit? She's tiny, and she's under your bellybutton. It works on so many levels."

"Two," she specified, her expression still suspicious. "So, you saw that, then. You saw Leena tell me that."

His brow contracted. "Tell you what? About the baby? And how she'll look like us? Yeah, I saw. You saw it with me, remember?"

"No," she shook her head. "I mean about calling her that. Leena said..." her surprise deepened as Pete continued to blink innocently, "...she said you'd call her Button."

He grinned, not caring one bit that the reader had called it. "Just me? You won't call her that?"

Myka have a huff of pleased befuddlement and shook her head. "No. She said I'd call her Cupid."

Pete's grin softened and his hands slid from her stomach to wrap warmly around her back. "Of course you would," he predicted sagely. He pulled her in that last inch and put his lips to her ear. "Now gimme some sugar."

Myka felt him push the memory of her hugs into her mind, his sexual and emotional addiction to how soft they were, how bad they turned him on, how much comfort they gave him. His attachment to her hug was so strong that she felt it give off actual heat. Her eyes dilated, stunned that such a small gesture of hers had such a severe effect on him. She immediately put her arms around his back, pressing herself into him while her hands rubbed down his jacket.

"Like this?" she asked against his cheek, nestling into his stubble and making happy little coos.

"Yeah," he rasped into her hair, pushing it aside and latching his lips to her earlobe. Pete groaned raggedly and Myka went limp and boneless in his arms. Pleasure shot out from both of their minds and collided in midair with the same violence and unlikeliness of two bullets. Twin thoughts echoed simultaneously.

_I love when I do this._

_I love when you do that._

Myka burrowed into the side of his neck and kissed him desperately. _Pete, I am so in love with you._

He growled with feral contentment and cinched his arms tighter around her. _Baby, I love you so damn much that it's killing me. _

_Take me home_, she repeated his plea to him. _Make love to me. I'm serious, I don't want to be able to walk for a week._

His growl grew louder as he bent down and swept her up into his arms. She gasped at her sudden weightlessness and Pete's thoughts went decidedly mischievous. _Oh, sure. Send me slutty thoughts when all I can do is cuddle you. _

She saw his thought of a fetus and she laughed, cupping his jaw and kissing his nose. "Such a gentleman. But I'm pretty sure we're still allowed to get it on."

Turning towards the car she'd driven to find him, he walked as if she weighed nothing, sighing melodramatically. "We can't take that chance. If your eggo is preggo, then I ain't sexin' you up until she's in college. That way we know she'll be okay in utero and not scarred for life by accidentally walking in on us at any point in her childhood."

Myka shrieked and flailed mightily in his grasp. "Don't you dare!" she wailed at him as he laughed. Opening the passenger door, he deposited her into the seat and pulled the safety belt securely around her while she slapped at his hands. "Pete, shoo. I'm not an invalid."

"God, hormonal already. Just _liiie _back and let daddy do _aaall_ the work," he patronized before slamming the door shut.

"I'll seriously shoot you! Don't think I won't!" Her shout was muffled as he walked around to the driver's side.

As they pulled up to the B&B and walked up to the front door, they were pleased to notice that no one else appeared to be home. Leena had made herself scarce. Myka ascended the stairs first, crossing the landing and walking straight into her room.

_Come_, she ordered softly, not the Pete needed to be invited. There was no way in hell he wasn't joining her. He locked the door behind him and immediately started pulling off his clothes, wincing slightly as stiffened pain ratcheted through his body.

Myka stilled at the bed, feeling his soreness. As she undressed beside it, she soothed him.

_Poor baby._

He turned to her thought in nothing but his boxers. Bruises and blood covered some of his arms and upper back. Myka went pale and he felt her sadness at his injuries. He said nothing, merely walked up to her, now only in her bra and panties, and gently pushed her onto the bed. Looking down intently, he thought back to her.

_Then hold me. I need you to hold me. _

He let himself imagine it openly now, seeing Myka wrapped around him and comforting him with her naked body. Far more intimate than sex, he saw them trusting themselves to each other, letting their unguarded selves heal in the other's presence.

Myka smiled at his thoughts and imagined the shower. She was about to suggest she get him clean first, but he shook his head at her. _Bed_, his mind showed her again forcefully. _Hugs. _

She smiled wider and opened her arms.

Pete dove into the warmth of his lover and unborn daughter.


	30. Chapter 30

Without the inebriation of the arrows in their blood, their first time together had all of the trembling awareness that a _real _first time would have embodied.

For the longest time, they were more than happy to just lie together in Myka's bed, basking in each other's heat and fairly certain that they wouldn't be disturbed. Unlike before, Myka refused to let Pete spoon her, preferring instead of face him on her side so that she could touch him as she liked. Pete was just fine with that, loving how her hands kept returning to his shoulders, rubbing him gently, wanting to soothe away his pain.

"Feels good," he murmured absently, his eyes closed with the exhaustion of a long day and several emotional train wrecks. Without his arrowed blood, he registered her touch with a razor-sharp clarity. Every minute flick of her nails over his skin gave him shivers. He felt absolutely boneless with pleasure and it was simply due to that fact that he was resting beside her.

But Myka had other ideas.

Slowly, carefully, she moved in closer and dipped her head. Pete inhaled sharply and opened his eyes at the feeling of her soft, uncertain kisses on his chest. "My?"

"Hmmm?" she vibrated against him, her hands sliding from his shoulders and massaging his forearms as she pressed her lips over his nipple.

Pete hissed raggedly, his hands rising instantly to cup her head against him lovingly. "What's up there, buttercup?" he tried to sound playful and not agonized.

"Nothing," she murmured, tonguing him softly. " 'm just kissing you."

He snorted. _There's no such thing as you "just" kissing me, _he thought to her_._

He could already feel his response to her light touch swelling in his boxers. Dammit, he shouldn't be so eager-beaver considering he felt half dead, but lo and behold. Myka brushed her lips on him and already he was at half mast.

She felt his irritation at his own arousal and lifted her eyes to his questioningly. _Should I stop? I can stop if you want me to.  
_

Myka couldn't help feeling slightly exposed as she asked him. Sure, they'd kissed like horror movie teenagers once they'd made up, but this was a whole other kettle of fish. In love as they were, carnally aware as they were, pregnant as they were, sex was still something they hadn't had while sober. Suddenly she realized that _this _was going to be their first time, with all of their fears and insecurities intact. No savage certainties awaited them. No drunken beliefs of true love or soulmates or any of that stuff that Artie had so tastefully deemed "crap".

She should have waited. It was probably something they should discuss first.

But Myka couldn't seem to help herself. Pete looked so adorably happy with his arms around her, snuggling into her bed like he belonged there and sighing the sigh of the righteous. She could feel his serenity curling around her, hugging her just as firmly as his arms did. He wasn't thinking, not really, no more than an ocean put any thought into its waves. He was just feeling. The fact that she was responsible for his current pleasured state made her feel warm and...curious. She wanted to explore him again, to let him lie back and relax while she followed the topography of his shape with her lips. She wondered if he felt different now that her nerves were just as involved as her heart. Or tasted different. Or if he'd growl and grunt as scandalously as he had while under the artifact's influence.

Set a trap for a curious cat, Myka was out exploring.

Pete heard her question. More importantly, he felt her niggling fear of rejection. Angry comfort rose up hotly in his mind, attacking her meek little fear with his enormous heart. She gasped at his heated reaction as he wordlessly flipped to his back and threw his arms out wide beside her.

_Lick me_, he challenged her, his eyes snapping with playful daring. _Kiss me. Bite me. Suck me. Touch me every-fucking-where and don't think for one second that I don't want more. That I haven't always wanted more._

She mewled softly with desire and ran her hands gently down his chest, reveling in its warm breadth. "You're hurt," she argued weakly. "I should let you sl-"

"Fuck me." His voice startled her. They were speaking in their heads so much now that hearing his lust grate the air actually gave her a jolt.

_Pete, I-_

_Myka_, he thought louder over her. _Please. I want you to touch me. I want you to take your bra and panties off and spread all over me. Any way you want. And I want you to tell me what to do. Tell me how I'm allowed to touch you._ "Show me," he said at the same time. "Show me how you want to be loved."

Myka was already over him, her knees between his open legs, her arms supporting her on either side of him as she dragged wet, sucking kisses down his torso. Pete moaned as she lowered to a slight push-up and slid the lace of her bra over his stomach. His erection, now steely and pulsing, poked pleasantly against her belly through his boxers. She altered her voice to it's sexiest pitch, wanting him to hear about bad she wanted him. "You want me to boss you around, Pete? Fine." _First_, she switched to thinking to him. _ I want you to watch while I suck your cock. _

Pete gasped out loud and Myka moaned into his skin, moving lower, wanting it now already. _And since this is our "first" time, you're going to be nice and vocal about how you want it. _She raised her memory of Pete's loud praise in the hotel room as she blew him, his words tripping over themselves as they fell from his mouth. He hadn't been shy about directing her then and Pete felt gobsmacked as he felt Myka's desire for him to continue instructing her when she had her mouth on him.

His boxers were already halfway down his legs when her insanely soft tongue took a tentative swipe at him.

"Fuck!" he hissed sharply, his hips bucking up.

"Too hard?" she teased softly.

"You fucking _know_ I love it when you suck me hard!" he cursed adoringly at her, loving that she felt brave enough to play.

"But I've never done this, Pete," she continued in a light tone, stroking his impressive dick with feather-soft fingers and driving him crazy. "I have no idea how the _real _you likes sex."

"For example," she purred as she licked a small, cruel path from base to tip. "Did I tell you in the hotel that I've never had a man as big as you? Do you want to hear stuff like that?"

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," he moaned, his head pushing back into her pillow, his eyes rolling back. "Yes, _please_, baby. _Please!_"

The same image she'd conjured now sparked to life in his mind. The memory filled her with Pete's ecstasy as she sucked and licked and nibbled him in all the right ways against the hotel wall. They moaned together, both feeling his remembered pleasure.

"Peeete," she called, almost drunk on the memory, and mindlessly lowered her mouth to engulf him completely.

Pete gave a scratchy, barking shout and arched up blindly between her pouty lips. He registered her castaway thoughts about how much of a delicious chore it was to get her mouth around him, how she'd never had that trouble before and wanted that frighteningly exhilarating stretch he gave her every day for the rest of her life. "Fuck, yeah..." he panted. "Oh, fuck me, baby...Christ, you're so hot...like that...yes!...I've wanted those lips around my cock since the day I met you...harder!...give it to me, My...suck me like you wanna kill me."

Myka sobbed around his length, moving faster as instructed, wanting to scream in rapture as she learned that Pete - arrowed or not - was a vocal lover. His shift between praise, instruction and confession left her almost insensible with lust. Tearing madly at her bra, she unhooked it and snatched it off her body, letting him go with a pop, only to rub his glistening cock between her aching breasts.

Pete's mind exploded with pleasure.

"Yessss!" he hissed at her, cupping her face as he thrust between her soft swells. Their eyes clapped together and Pete roared internally. _So good so good so good so good..._

_What else? _she questioned ardently, grinding down into his thrusts and burying him deeper in her cleavage. _What else do you like? _

"Whatever you give me," he answered immediately, fighting his urge to thrust even harder against her. She was pregnant with his tiny baby girl, after all. He needed to remember that, even if her mother was trying like hell to make him lose his mind. "Any way you touch me, I want."

She tsked him for his evasiveness and kissed his navel. "Do you want to touch _me_?" she asked against him.

He clenched his teeth and continued to writhe rhythmically beneath her. "Yes," he ground out.

_How, Pete? Show me how._

"Ah, fuck," he rasped, not wanting to show her for fear of scaring her, but helpless to stop the memories that poured out of him at her request. Myka was overwhelmed as he smacked her with a montage of ways that he'd already touched her and ways he wanted to try. Her hair, her back, her arms, her breasts, her stomach (that one felt especially strong), her legs, and the glory between them. She felt him caressing her with his eyes, his fingers, his tongue, his dick, anywhere he could reach. Then she felt him holding her, his gruff possessiveness taking control as he riveted her to the bed and wouldn't let her leave it. Even if she had to pee, she had to beg him for the forty-five seconds when she wouldn't be in his arms. She felt them wrestling again, and his adoration that _finally _he was with a woman who was strong enough and silly enough to fight back. She felt herself sitting in his lap. She felt his hand in hers, all sweaty but still not letting go. She felt him hug her for no reason at all. She felt him turn a chaste kiss under the mistletoe into a full-blown smooching grope that won shouts and whistles from the party around them. She felt their little girl, about ten years old, sleeping between them in this very bed as they read her a story. She felt every single way Pete wanted to touch her.

Myka exhaled a shaky breath that she hadn't meant to hold.

"Which one first?" she asked the hesitant man beneath her.

His eyes raked her nearly naked body against his will. His mouth snapped shut, but his mind betrayed him. _Your breasts. I want to kiss you there._

Myka wordlessly climbed higher onto his body until her chest aligned with his mouth. "Kiss them," she begged softly. "I want your mouth on me."

Pete's control snapped so violently that it sounded like a thick twig broke in his head. Myka heard it and whimpered with pleasure when he lifted his head and took one of her straining nipples between his teeth and pulled. With one hand supporting her, her other hand clasped the back of his head and cradled him to her as she moaned loudly. "Yes," she breathed. "Pete, more. Please, more?"

He growled and sucked harder, his arms banding tight around her waist as he lifted higher into her. Half-sitting, Pete fed on her as surely as if her skin gave him sustenance. As he switched to her other breast, he sat up fully, pulling her into a straddling position on his lap. His erection locked tightly against her panties and Myka cried out as it crushed against her throbbing clit. Pete only growled louder at her encouraging noises and gripped her like a man possessed.

_Yes_, she crooned inwardly. _I love when you take from me. I love making you crazy._

"So fucking crazy," he agreed at loud, relishing how her pebbled flesh grew even harder under his tongue. "You drive me nuts, baby."

Myka ground herself against him, making no secret of her soaked and desperate condition. Pete felt her wetness through her panties and nearly howled with smug pride.

"If I stick my finger in your tight little pussy, how ready am I going to find you?" he asked lazily as he kissed the plump flesh around her nipples.

The woman in Myka reacted before the feminist did, twitching in his lap as her eyes rolled back with girlish expectation. "_Sooo_ ready. Pete, I need you so bad."

He was already tracing along their frail lace barrier, teasing her with the knowledge that he could tear them to shreds without even trying. "So if I just creep inside..." he drawled.

"Yes," she moaned, pushing into his touch.

Ignoring the obvious pleasure he felt in her mind, he continued to torture her with formalities. "So you like it when I tease you like this? You like getting fingered until you've soaked my hand and you're begging me to replace them with my dick?"

Myka was beyond pride. Beyond embarrassment. Beyond fear. Love and desire burned her up, catapulting her answer into his brain and knocking him flat with its arrow-like intensity. _Touch me NOW!_

His own intensity answered her. Her panties were ripped aside as Pete slid two fingers knuckle-deep into her trembling depths. "Yes!" she screamed gratefully, gripping his nape and riding his fingers with abandon. _Oh god, yes! Love how you touch me, Pete. So deep so hard so strong so sweet yes!_

Her thoughts were a river of lust, pouring out in baffling waves of broken sentences and wordless bliss.

"_Holy fuck_," he breathed lustfully. "So _fucking_ wet, baby."

"Uh-huh," she whimpered, eyes shut tight as she thrust madly against him.

"You always gonna be this wet for me?" More of his smugness filled her head.

"Yes." More of her wanton desire filled his.

"At the dinner table?" he prodded puckishly, gently curling his fingers inward and watching her flail. "In the field? Watching tv?" He tugged her close and bit her earlobe. "You gonna be this wet in your cute little black suits with your hair pulled back while wearing your gun?"

"Yes!" she sobbed, tilting her head back, giving him everything he wanted without thought. _Please, Pete! Fuck me fuck me fuck me!_

It was exactly what he'd been waiting for. He grabbed her shoulders and roughly pushed her. Falling to her back, Myka cried out with approval when he ripped her panties clean off her and locked himself between her legs. His pain was forgotten, so when she gripped his shoulders and arched into him pleadingly, he felt nothing but delight.

_Put me inside you_, he begged without shame. When it came right down to it, Pete wanted Myka to be in control. Their "first" time. Their baby. Pete couldn't bear the thought of hurting her. Hurting _them_. He didn't care if he remembered them having rougher sessions before. This was now, and he was going to learn step-by-sweet-agonizing-step how real Myka wanted to be made love to. Once they'd done it a few hundred times or so, then he'd think about taking the reigns.

But now Myka's graceful hand was encircling him, squeezing him, guiding him eagerly to her center. Once she had him where she wanted him, she shocked him by surging up quickly, embracing all of him in her scalding, soaking body.

Pete groaned as he slid home. Myka sobbed and strained upwards, desperate to keep all of him inside as her pussy stretched and ached around his wonderful invasion. She locked her arms around him and rained dozens of kisses up his chest and neck. "Baby," she whispered to him. "Oh, my god, why did we wait so long for this?"

He gave a strangled chuckle and gently began to move, stunned to feel each thrust felt better than the last. "You wanted time to think, remember?" he grit out jokingly, trying like hell to keep his shit together.

"No," she sighed and shivered underneath him, feeling his pleasure as well as hers and nearly fainting at the increase. "I mean before the arrows. I never should have waited. I should have told you, Pete. I should have begged you to make love to me every day. _Begged_ you. For your love, for your bed, for your baby. Everything."

He stilled his tentative strokes and gazed adoringly into her eyes. Caressing her cheek, he scolded lightly, "The woman I love doesn't beg for anything."

She scoffed softly, her eyes radiating love as she glanced at his still slightly bloodied upper arms. _You _make_ me beg, Pete. Without even trying, you make me want to. _

He smiled and withdrew gently before sliding back to the hilt, stilling again. Myka gasped and clutched him closer, still amazed and unused to his size. His smile melted into a smirk. _Sooooo tight_, he thought absently.

He felt her surprise at his thought, her rationale being that being so well-endowed, all women would feel tight to him. He flexed his penis inside her and won another gasp from her. "Believe me, baby. You're the tightest, sweetest, hottest thing I've ever felt in my life."

She undulated under him, relishing his girth before smiling up at him. "Don't change the subject. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

"No," he rasped, resuming his soft, but continuous pace. "Keep your apology, My. I don't want some chippy who begs me for sex and babies. I want my kick-ass Wonder Woman. I want to know I've earned your love, baby. And I _know_ I have. The arrows would never have worked otherwise."

Myka moved with him - strong, languid strokes that stoked their lust higher and higher. Her mind went decidedly scrambled when he hit a sweet spot deep in her womb.

Pete felt it with her and swore, his vocabulary taking a serious hit. "Goddammit, I love fucking you."

"Yes," she agreed breathlessly. "More. Give me more."

His plunges became harder in a flash, pumping swiftly and deeply into her starving body. "Like this?"

She nodded wildly, squeezing her eyes tight against the runaway train of pleasure that was racing right towards her. "You're gonna make me come." It was a cross between an admission and a plea.

_Oh, fuck yeah_, he thought with seething pride. _You come all over me, baby. You scream my name and show me how much you like my dick in you. _

Myka would never have imagined Pete as such a profane man in bed, but she adored the way he could startle her into orgasm through the sheer force of his dirty, sexy words. She seized and spasmed violently under him, her arms and legs clenching around him as her pussy gripped him like a vice.

"_Peeete!_" she screamed aloud, giving him her strained, delirious voice as she dragged him into his own release.

"_Oh, fuck, yes! Yes! Jesus, baby, YES_!" Pete roared so loudly that the air shook around them, his hips pumping frantically as Myka squeezed him dry. It seemed to go on forever. He couldn't remember any orgasm gripping him this tightly and refusing to let him come down. As he moaned and shuddered violently above her, Myka sobbed and trembled below.

"Love you," she offered weakly, collapsing underneath him, unable to clasp her limbs around him anymore.

"My pretty baby," he grunted hoarsely, letting himself lower into the soft warmth of her. "God, I love you so much."

She found the strength to put her arms around him and was immediately gratified with his internal bliss at her move. The man loved him some hugs, that was for sure.

She nuzzled his shoulder and sighed, well and truly exhausted. "What are we going to do?" she asked quietly.

Pete smiled into her hair, not tensing one bit. "Nap. Have more sex. Go to work. Shelve the arrows. Get another case and close it like rock stars. Watch you grow round and gorgeous with my Button. Have ten more babies after her. And live, My. We'll just live."

Myka grinned at his blithe rundown of their whole lives. "Eleven kids running around the warehouse? Artie will have a heart attack."

He snorted and raised himself up enough to look down at her. "It's his own fault for pairing me with such a stone cold fox. Babies were bound to happen."

Her smile softened as she felt the undercurrent of his love behind his silly words. "Think we'll be okay?"

He nodded, letting his confidence fill her.

"We're gonna be golden."

END

**W13W13W13W13W13**

**A/N**: Hi all! Well, we've come to the end at last. Phew! I want to thank you all for taking this ride with me. I really, seriously appreciate it. Leave me chocolate in the form of reviews if you likey the story. They make my whole week. Until the next story, adieu!


End file.
